


Why We Fall

by messageredacted



Series: Why We Fall [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Earth-3 (Crime Syndicate Universe), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new villain comes to Gotham, and he looks strangely like Gotham’s dark knight.</p><p>Now with illustrations!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on 30 September 2009.
> 
> Illustrations by [Sawayaka](http://sawayaka.deviantart.com/), commissioned by [tehopheliac](http://tehopheliac.livejournal.com/). Thanks to tehopheliac for giving me permission to include these illustrations in the fic!

  


* * *

  


Being inside Arkham is like being crammed into a giant clock. The room lights turn on at six in the morning on the dot, _tic_ , and they shut off again at nine at night, _toc_. The noise from the kitchen starts before the lights, at five thirty, copper pots and running water and the revolving thrum of the industrial hoods, preparing the morning’s gruel, and that doesn’t change either. Gloppy grey oatmeal, gloppy grey scrambled eggs, gloppy grey sausage patties, no sharp edges, no sir. Can’t hurt yourself with this slop. Nothing requiring a fork or, heh heh, a _knife._

Five fifty-nine fifty-seven, five fifty-nine fifty-eight, five fifty-nine fifty-nine, six am on the dot and here come the nurses, rubber soled shoes _squeaking_ , wheeled trays _squeaking_ , door hinges _squeaking_ , and the inmates—no, _patients_ —are all waking up now if the lights didn’t wake them already. Time for the first round of meds, the ones you take with food. The Joker hates this part, HATES it, so it’s nice of them to get it over with early. At least, until mid-morning meds, and lunch meds, and afternoon _tea_ meds. It’s enough to make a man go, ha ha, _crazy._

They’ve got a name for everything in this place (except, heh, for him). The meds, the ones in the morning, those are Clozapine. And then there’s Risperidone and Ziprasidone and Asenapine. The side effects, those have names too. The feeling like his head is full of cotton wool, that’s _dysphoria_. The feeling that there’s a bird in his chest trying to get out, that’s _akathisia_. When he licks his lips, that’s _tardive dyskinesia_ , and that one’s permanent. He could stop the drugs tomorrow— _if only_ —but he’d still have _that_ tic (tic, ha! Get it?) for the rest of his life.

The nurse, her name’s Polly.

She comes in now, pushing a tray, followed by two orderlies. “Good morning, Mister J,” she says. “Did you have sweet dreams?”

He rolls his head to the side and hunches as far as he can go with these _goddamn_ restraints. “Dreamed about you, Polly.”

“Did you?” she asks mildly, preparing his dose. Ben, one of the orderlies, comes over and starts opening his restraints. Patrick, the other one, stands at the ready. They’re both big guys, burly, because they found out pretty early on that Joker doesn’t like to be touched and, heh, he’s _stronger_ than he looks. Most of the inmates don’t get this _special treatment._

The Joker continues, ignoring the orderlies. “You should wear your hair down. You look better that way.”

Ben gets him undone and Patrick hands him the straight jacket. They manhandle him to a sitting position and get one arm into the jacket, then the other. Once in a while Joker will take this opportunity to struggle, maybe get an arm free, maybe break someone’s nose—the orderly, his own, _whatever_ —just to keep everyone on their _toes_ , but the week of sedation after that sort of a stunt is killer, so it’s more of a thing he saves for special occasions.

“Mmhm,” says Polly. She turns her back politely and Ben and Patrick get him out of the bed. The straight jacket’s got one buckle left—the _fun_ strap—but first it’s the toilet. Pants down, Patrick’s cool hand perpetrating this particular indignity today. Aim, _fire_. Joker turns his head to look over his shoulder at Polly’s narrow back.

“And the eyes. You have such pretty blue eyes. There you were, pretty blue eyes, wearing those _cute_ little glasses, at least until I removed them—” He starts to giggle, catches himself— “Removed the _eyes_ , I mean.”

Patrick puts him back in his pants with a little more force than necessary. “Hey, hey, don’t I get a _shake_?” he exclaims, but Ben’s got the fun strap and pulls it tight. Ouch.

Back to the cot. Ben and Patrick both hold him in place when Polly comes with the tiny paper cup of pills. “Open wide, sweetie,” Polly says.

Somewhere in the building, there is a faint rattle, like beans in a can. Or gunfire. The Joker tilts his head, curious. Polly doesn’t even blink. “Open your mouth,” she says again.

“I think your clock’s broken,” says the Joker. Patrick’s thumb wedges into the corner of his mouth, cranks it open—and _hey_ , Patrick, I know where those hands have been!—and Polly comes with the cup of pills, tips them onto his tongue. “Swallow,” she says.

He swallows. “Ooh, déjà vú,” he says. “I remember saying that to _you_ —”

Ben shoves him back and his head hits the wall, but he’s laughing too hard to care. Polly wheels out the tray and Ben and Patrick follow, and the door closes, but not before he hears another rattle. Closer. And they are _most definitely_ not beans.

The screaming starts a few minutes later, and that just sends the whole thing to hell. One scream and off go the inmates—like clockwork!—banging and shouting and wailing and probably pissing themselves if Joker knows crazy _and he does_ —(guilt by association, he’s not crazy. He’s not)—and there’s the squeak of rubber soles on the floor, nurses running like _mad_ (heh) and a burst of gunfire so close that he can see the noise like flowers behind his eyes _not see, you can’t see noise, what are you, cr—_

The door opens.

Of all the people in the city Joker could have expected to come into Arkham, guns a-blazin’, this guy in a bird suit was not even on the list, though maybe because he’s never seen him before. Blue suit, pecs like a Greek god, a mask that covers his face down to the indent over his upper lip, a _strikingly familiar_ square jaw, pointy little ears—

“The Joker?” the man says in a growl. Familiar growl too, yet different.

The Joker tilts his head to the side and licks his lips. _Tardive dyski-FUCKING-nesia._ “Guilty as charged. And _you_ are…?”

The man studies him. His eyes are barely visible behind slits in the mask, and how weird, they’re _yellow_? He comes into the room and there is another burst of gunfire in the hallway, a flash of someone running past. The Joker sits up from his slouch, automatically flexing his muscles against the uncomfortable pull of the straight jacket.

“They said you were the worst criminal Gotham has ever seen,” the man says. He reaches out, grabs a fistful of greasy hair, the tips still green, the roots growing out dark blond. He leans in close and yeah, those eyes are yellow ringed around black, like an owl or something. Color contacts? Seriously?

“Who said? Remind me to send them a fruit basket—” The Joker stops, annoyed, when the man gives him a sharp shake.

“Funny,” says the man. “To me, you just look like a no-talent _stand-up comic_.”

The Joker squints up at him, haloed by the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. “And you came all this way to hear my _jokes_.”

The man studies him for a moment longer, his eyes hard and his expression unreadable. He doesn’t blink, and _that’s_ just freaky.

“They call me Owlman,” he says. His suit smells like rubber and talc. “And I didn’t come all this way just to hear your jokes.” He lets go of Joker’s hair and straightens up, absently wiping his gloved hand on his thigh. “Have you ever heard of alternate universes?”

The Joker plants his feet on the floor. He could lunge forward, plow into the guy and knock him over, then get to the door and take his chances with the guns. Sure, he’s in a straightjacket and his head feels like someone took out his brain and replaced it with crumpled newspaper and he doesn’t have any weapons except for his _teeth_ , but he could ride the guy to the floor, bite off his lips, _distract_ him a bit.

Owlman is watching him, his arms relaxed at his sides, looking calm, but there’s some sort of dangerous awareness there. Something _vicious_. Something that maybe wouldn’t be the slightest bit distracted by having his lips bitten off.

The Joker smiles, showing his teeth. “I’m in an insane asylum. Of _course_ I have.”

The man doesn’t look amused, but it’s always hard to tell with a mask. “You gambled on the selfishness of real people and brought this city to a standstill for a couple days. Others tried to bring down the city with fear and panic and succeeded for an evening. People try. Everyone fails. And why?”

The Joker feels his mouth forming the word before he’s even conscious of the thought. _Batman._

“Lack of ambition,” says Owlman. “You cause panic and reveal the dark underbelly of Gotham and challenge authority _as if that’s an end in itself._ Chaos for the sake of chaos is no way to take over the world.”

The Joker licks his lips. “And you’re going to do it better _how_?”

“Delegating.” Owlman takes a slice of metal from his belt, a wicked thing shaped like an owl. He holds it loosely in his hand. “I _have_ done it better, and my Gotham runs so smoothly there’s no challenge to it anymore.”

“ _Your_ Gotham,” the Joker giggles. “And how did you get from there to here? Where’s your _Delorean_?”

“There is one man in this city who even bothers standing up to criminals,” Owlman says, ignoring his question. “Take him out and the city collapses.”

Anger floods up behind the Joker’s teeth. “You don’t _touch_ him,” he snaps. “Batman is _my_ game.” He surges to his feet, head angling for the unprotected square of jaw in front of him, but his limbs move like he’s drunk and Owlman sidesteps, grabbing his shoulder and slamming him into the opposite wall, body flush against Joker’s back, the owlarang pressing firmly up under his jaw. The Joker takes a breath and the blade moves slick against his flesh, already lubed with blood.

“I told you,” says Owlman, his voice quieter. “I’m delegating.” The blade moves away from his neck and there is the squeak of rubber. “I’m not interfering with your game. I’m going to give you a piece of the puzzle.” Owlman shifts behind him and then his breath is against Joker’s ear. The Joker turns his head and the face next to him is close enough to kiss, close enough to bite, and the mask has been removed.

“He’s my little brother,” Owlman says with the face of Bruce Wayne, and the Joker starts to laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

The apartment takes a breath of air through its teeth and Bruce Wayne wakes up with a gasp.

There is a breeze in the bedroom, wind whistling. The warmth of the room is being tugged out the broken window, glass still on the floor. There’s a shape out the window, something dark and flapping. A bat? He squints muzzily. Far too big for that.

“We’re going to take, ah, _baby steps_ ,” says a voice next to him.

Bruce jerks around, scrambling half out of the bed before he even consciously registers the identity of the person sprawled on the bed next to him. His foot tangles the sheet and he nearly topples but catches himself up against the window by the bed. The glass is cold against his bare back.

The Joker has his hands clasped on his stomach, his feet crossed at the ankles, a pillow bunched under his head. He smiles, his eyes empty.

“Oh, sorry, did I startle you?”

Startle is not the word for it. He would think this was a dream except that it’s too real: the wind on his bare chest, the adrenaline buzzing behind his teeth, the crust of sleep in the corners of his eyes. There is a scrape and he turns his head and realizes that in the shadows of the doorway are three more men, their faces strangely warped and oblong—clown masks. There is another shape on the ground, curled up. This is real. _This is really happening._

All eyes on him, and he’s in his underwear. But it’s not a dream.

“Alfred,” he says. The shape doesn’t move.

“A little lower,” says the Joker. “Pretend that you have throat cancer.” He affects a low, gravelly voice. “ _Alfred._ ”

Bruce turns back to him. The room is dark but the city lights make it bright enough to see the purple fabric of his trousers and jacket, shabby and wrinkled. There’s a raw patch of blood on the cuff of the jacket.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“A little bird told me that, uh, _Bruce Wayne_ had a _dark little secret_.” The Joker unclasps his hands and sits up, stretching, his back popping. “Something about rubber suits and roleplaying dominance fantasies, likes people to call him Daddy. Or was it _Batman_?”

Something goes cold in his chest. How ridiculous, that the Joker thinks he’s Batman. In way, he’s right: Bruce is the face underneath the mask of Batman, the body that animates the suit. In a way, he’s wrong: without the mask, Bruce is a soft billionaire playboy whose flesh tears under bullets as easily as anyone else. Batman isn’t here right now.

There are no weapons in the bedroom. If he can get downstairs, there’s a secret closet with an extra suit and some tools but there are three men with guns in between him and the stairs right now. He looks back at the shape on the floor. “Let go of Alfred.”

The Joker sucks on his teeth. “Right, that’s where I was, wasn’t it? _Baby steps_.” He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and stands. “Last time we tangoed, I was, ah, trying to get you to break your _one rule_. Believe me, that’s still the plan.” He flips on the lamp next to the bed and a pool of yellow light spills over him and the bed, glaringly bright in the dark room. Bruce squints against the blaze. The Joker licks his lips. “But in my six months of solitary confinement I had a lot of time to think, and I realized that I was going about it _all wrong._ ”

There’s a phone on the bedside table closest to him. He can call the police if he can get to it without the Joker noticing. They’ll send in a SWAT team if they know the Joker is here. Bruce’s palms are sweating. Batman could take these four men out without a problem. Batman could walk through a hail of bullets and bend their guns into knots. But Bruce Wayne’s not bulletproof.

The Joker is watching him, his head tilted to the side. “I escalated too quickly,” he says. “First you had to choose to save Rachel Dawes or Harvey Dent. You killed one by saving the other—well, maybe _saving_ is too strong a word.” He snorts with laughter. “His face, his face, his face was on _fire_! We don’t need no water let that motherfucker _burn_!” He claps his hand over his mouth and bends at the waist, laughing hysterically for a minute before regaining control over himself. “And sorry—sorry about mixing up the addresses—that was _entirely_ my fault. I feel _terrible._ ” He dissolves into laughter again.

Rage bubbles up in Bruce’s chest. He clenches his fists and takes a step forward but stops. He hears the shift in the doorway of the armed men watching warily. The Joker’s eyes flick to his clenched fists and he straightens, swallowing the last of his laughter. Bruce forces his hands to unclench.

The Joker continues, looking up at him under his lashes. “The mistake was when I thought you’d kill me over _that_. Your true love was _justice_ , not some childhood sweetheart that left you for someone else. Rachel Dawes was the symbol of everything good and pure and precious that you fought for, but you didn’t _love_ her. Love is messy and you—” He shakes his head. “ _You can’t handle mess._ ”

“What do you know about love?” Bruce bites out.

“In order to hate, you have to love, Brucie. …Batsy. You didn’t love Rachel, did you? Courtly love, maybe. The love a knight has for a lady.” The Joker’s voice is low, his head tilted to the side again, watching Bruce avidly as if he’s waiting to see Bruce’s reaction to the punchline. “How do you feel about Alfred, Brucie?”

Bruce looks over at the doorway again. The light from the lamp has illuminated the men enough to see the shape on the floor. One of the men reaches down, grabs a fistful of hair and lifts. The figure is not Alfred. It’s a young woman, a strip of duct tape over her mouth, her eyes heavy lidded. There’s a thread of blood coming from her left temple.

“Lights,” says the Joker with a flourish. One of the men hits the wall switch and all the lights come on. A gust of wind brings his attention to the window.

There’s a figure hanging upside down out the window. Alfred hangs there, his face red with the blood that has rushed to his head and with the bitter wind. His back is arched painfully, his arms wrenched back, wrists handcuffed to his ankles. His knees hook over a loop of chain suspended somewhere out of sight, probably from the window a floor above. He’s wearing a cape and cowl from Bruce’s suit downstairs. The cape jerks in the wind like a living thing.

“Alfred!” Bruce chokes out, crossing the room in four steps.

Alfred’s eyes, which are closed, flicker open briefly. “Master Bruce,” he mouths, the wind taking his voice away. There’s something dangling below him, attached by a chain to his wrists. It spins in the wind and Bruce realizes that it’s the body of the doorman to the building, hanging by his neck, his eyes bulging, his face blue.

“Baby steps,” says the Joker. He’s standing by the woman now. Bruce turns to them. The woman’s eyes are open and tears are trickling down her cheeks.

“First, you let someone die in order to save someone else.” The Joker ticks it off on his fingers. “Now, you’ll have to kill someone to save someone. I’ll make it easy: you don’t even know this woman.” He leans down, grabs a corner of the duct tape on the woman’s mouth and rips it off. There’s something in her mouth, something big and round and dark. She’s crying harder.

“The next step is to make you _want_ to kill. But don’t worry, _that_ comes later.” The Joker smiles, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. There’s a worn spot in the paint on his mouth where he has licked it away. He hitches his pants and squats next to the woman, patting the bulge in her cheek. “If I were to unhook Alfred’s ankles from his wrists—and just to avoid any misunderstandings, that’s, ah, _exactly_ what I intend to do—he would be dangling there by just his knees, and while I’m sure he’s quite a hardy old man, I don’t think he’s strong enough to hold his own weight and that of your, ah, _dear departed doorman_ very long.” His eyes roll up to Bruce and he smiles. “Of course, if you were to unlock the handcuffs holding Mr. Alfred to Mr. Doorman, Alfred would have a much better chance of _hanging on_ until you got him down.”

Bruce’s face feels like marble. He glances back at Alfred, whose eyes have closed again.

“And where is the key?” Bruce asks quietly, playing along.

The Joker kisses the girl’s cheek, leaving a cherry red lip print. “Attached to the pin of this grenade, of course.” He pats her on the head and stands again. “These grenades are _foreign made_ , very shoddy if you ask me. Pull the pin and you might have ten seconds before it blows. Maybe more. Maybe less. Who knows? Maybe it’s a dud.” He winks. “ _But I wouldn’t hold my breath_.” He makes a gesture to the men behind him. One of them moves towards Bruce, holding his Uzi at waist height.

“Back away from the window or he cuts your precious Alfred in half,” the Joker advises. “And then all this would be for naught.”

Bruce numbly takes a step away from the window. He could tackle the man and take the gun, but at fully automatic, the gun can empty a clip in under a second. Thirty bullets to the chest will cut anyone in half and all it takes is a twitch. He wouldn’t even know he was hit.

The man edges him back several feet from the window. The Joker approaches the window, reaching out to Alfred. He grabs his arm, fiddling with the chains connecting Alfred’s wrists to his ankles. He says something but the wind takes it away.

Alfred abruptly drops and swings free, his back straightening, his wrists free of his ankles. His arms wrench back, taking the full weight of the body below, and even in the howling wind Bruce can hear the crack of his shoulders dislocating. Alfred screams, his face twisting in pain. Bruce steps forward involuntarily, watching Alfred’s legs start to slip out of the loop of chain. Alfred, eyes squeezed shut, tightens his knees and catches himself. The old man’s legs are shaking with the effort of it.

“So, take the keys and let this girl’s head pop?” The Joker turns away from the window, looking back and forth between Bruce and Alfred. “Or let the girl live and let Alfred…go… _splat_?” He holds out his hands, weighing the choices. “Do you think Alfred will blame you for letting him drop? He won’t really have a lot of time to care. In fact, I think the last thing going through his head as he’s hitting the ground will be—” He pauses, already laughing— “ _his feet_!

Bruce steps toward him and three Uzis follow his move. He stops again, his chest heaving, fury darkening his sight until all he can see is the Joker’s laughing face. The Joker backs to the doorway, watching Bruce, laughing all the way. He turns and steps out of the room and the three men follow, leaving him alone with the girl and Alfred.

“I’m getting you down from there,” Bruce says to Alfred. The old man’s expression doesn’t change, his eyes still shut. His legs are shaking more. The wind is icy and the sweat on Bruce’s body has chilled to a clammy sheen.

He jogs to the desk in the corner of the room. Letter opener, papers, scissors. He knocks them to the floor, pulls out a drawer. Nothing. Slam, next drawer: nothing. Nothing useful. Nothing to cut through metal. “Dammit!”

The girl is crying and shaking, her hands cuffed behind her back. He squats down in front of her and she makes a noise, drawing away.

“I’m not going to let you die,” he says to her, catching her face gently in his hands. She freezes, shaking, watching him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The keys are welded to the pin. There is no way to cut them free without risking setting off the grenade. Any fiddling around could set it off. Foreign made or not, grenades are unstable things at the best of times.

“ _Bruce._ ” Alfred’s voice is hoarse but it reaches Bruce. He rises to his feet, hurries to the window, ignoring the broken glass under his bare feet.

“What is it?”

“It was an honor to serve you, sir,” Alfred says. His eyes are open but distant, focused somewhere inside. “You were like a son to me.”

Bruce reaches out and grabs Alfred’s wrist. “I’m not letting you drop!”

Alfred shakes his head, his eyes closing. “It means more to me that you don’t break your rule for me.”

Bruce swallows. “Alfred, don’t. Please.”

Alfred’s legs relax and he slides from the loop of chain. His wrist is wrenched out of Bruce’s grip, the weight of him doubled with the weight of the doorman. Bruce flings himself forward, grabbing for his ankle, the cloak, _anything_ , but Alfred is falling, cloak rippling and cracking around him like a bonfire, arrowing headfirst towards the street twenty floors down. Bruce hangs out the broken window, one hand clamped around the frame, the other hand reaching out into the air, and he can’t pull himself away. Red and blue lights are painting the buildings below, strobing and flashing. The black shape of Alfred flickers in front of the streetlights. Bruce has made this fall himself, six months ago, when the Joker tossed Rachel out the window, but he was Batman then. Batman could survive this fall.

Alfred does not.

The red and blue flashing lights register on Bruce’s brain. He pulls himself back in the window, panting with effort. His ears are ringing, maybe deafened by the roar of the wind. His eyes are streaming, maybe from the cold. His whole body is shaking, maybe from the adrenaline. He turns back into the room, where the girl is watching him with wide eyes. She makes a noise as he approaches her. He says nothing as he squats down and cups her face in his hands.

“You’re not going to die,” he whispers. Downstairs he can hear banging, someone at the door. There is shouting too, and a megaphone. Maybe he can hear the word ‘Batman’. It’s hard to hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“Slowly,” he says, his fingers wedging into her mouth. Her eyes are running and the corners of her mouth are bleeding from the stretch of the grenade. Her jaw is swollen and blue. The Joker must have dislocated it getting the grenade in her mouth, then relocated it when the grenade was in place. “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.”

She screams, a muffled, burbling scream, when her jaw dislocates. The grenade is birthed into Bruce’s palm, wet and black and sinister. He puts it on the floor and holds the girl tightly while he fixes her jaw. He wraps her hands around her face, holding her jaw in place. “Help is on the way,” he whispers. There is a splintering sound downstairs, the door giving in. He picks up the grenade.

He moves quietly in his bare feet and cotton pants, but then Batman always moves quietly. Out the door to the landing, down the stairs. There are footsteps in the foyer. Someone says ‘clear’ and he enters the small sitting room.

The secret panel where he keeps his spare Batman supplies is open. There is a lone glove on the floor, holding the door open. He kicks the glove out of the way, steps through and shuts the door. His spare suit is headless, missing its cape and cowl—and Alfred springs into his head, the cape flapping around him. He remembers his first thoughts on waking up— _a bat_?

There’s a small service elevator here. The spare key hangs on the hook by the closed gate. He pulls open the gate and steps in, turning the key in the lock on the control panel. He hits the button for the garage. The elevator starts to descend, the walls sliding past the cage.

If he can make it out of the building, he can go to the docks, where he keeps most of his supplies. The Joker knows who he is and apparently so does the police. They may know about his bat cave, but he can’t do anything without his tools. Without him in the suit, Batman can’t do anything about the Joker.

 _It means more to me that you don’t break your rule for me._

The elevator comes to a stop. Bruce pulls open the gate and steps into the tiny room. There is a small glass peephole in the hidden door. He peers out into his garage. There are three policemen standing there in the middle of the garage, between the rows of cars. One of them has his eyes on the main bank of elevators and the stairwell. Another has a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

Bruce eases the door open and steps through. Next to his silver BMW is a motorcycle, and that will have to do. He pulls the pin on the grenade.

He wings it over the heads of the three policemen, towards the far corner of the room. It hits the far wall, bounces off the concrete, skitters under a car. One of the policemen shouts and they all start towards the sound.

 _One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three—_

The flash sends his shadow out ahead of him as he swings his leg over the bike. The keys are in the ignition. He thinks of skull shrapnel embedded in the walls of his bedroom, of that girl’s pretty hair flash-burned to powder. He thinks of Alfred.

He starts the bike. The policemen are shouting and he knows they’ve seen him but he doesn’t dare look back. He opens the throttle and the bike lurches backward, swinging around in a curve. There is a gunshot but it goes wild. He shifts into drive and the bike eats up the ramp and bursts out into the red and blue night.

There are police cars blocking the entrance of the garage but the bike cuts between them before anyone can react. He doesn’t look anywhere but forward but he mentally calculates where his bedroom window is, where Alfred must have landed. He doesn’t look. He drives.

The bike moves through the traffic, slicing through the spaces between cars. He doesn’t pay any attention to the traffic lights. There are sirens wailing but the police cars cannot find the spaces between cars as easily as he can and he loses them after a few blocks. He makes his way gradually towards the docks.

Batman will be waiting for him.


	3. Chapter 3

The penthouse suite of the Marriott has a doorbell. The Joker jams his finger into the button and holds it down. After a minute, the door opens.

The lackey has a gun and wears a domino mask. The Joker would think it was _ironic_ if he thought Owlman had any sense of humor, but somehow he doubts it. “Candygram,” he says.

“Just you,” says the lackey, waving the gun.

The Joker glances over his shoulder at his three—minions? Henchmen? Insane Clown Posse? Heh. “Keep an eye out for the _fuzz_ ,” he says, tapping the side of his nose, and then sidles into the penthouse.

The sitting room to the right is empty but for a table covered in cash in neatly wrapped stacks. The lackey climbs the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the left, and isn’t that nice. Maybe the Joker wouldn’t have burned his half of the dough if he’d known penthouses had such _spiffy_ staircases. They reach the top.

There’s a cut crystal glass of ice melting in the dregs of some amber liquid on the bar. The sitting room here is walled in glass, and outside is a terrace that overlooks the city. The blue shadow of Owlman is straight ahead, leaning on the railing, his mask off. The Joker steps out the door onto the terrace.

“Not wearing your mask?” he asks. “Not trying to protect your, ah, _secret identity_?”

It’s bitterly cold out here, the wind jerking at the feathers on Owlman’s back, cutting through the thin fabric of the Joker’s clothes. Owlman does not turn. His hair (dark hair, like Bruce Wayne in the apartment last night) blows in the wind. He has the same jaw, same cheekbones, same everything as Bruce. They are perhaps not identical, but they are close enough to be brothers. The Joker joins him at the railing. From this height, the cars below are like toys, the sirens distant. The human noise of the city is far below them.

“Identity? I _am_ Owlman,” Owlman says. He flexes one arm and the owl wing shifts with it, stretching and relaxing with the move. “Whether I wear the mask or not.”

“You broke our deal.”

“I gave you a week,” Owlman says. “You took too long.”

“You called the cops,” the Joker snaps. “No one was supposed to find out yet! It was supposed to be a _surprise_!”

Something tightens in Owlman’s jaw. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Guess you’re not a big fan of me.”

The yellow eyes flash, the only warning the Joker has before Owlman has him around the throat and has slammed him into the wall of glass behind them. The Joker twists, breaks his hold, drilling his knee into the Owlman’s gut. His knee whacks hard plastic. Owlman fists his hair, slams his head against the window, which flexes and shudders but doesn’t break. Plexiglass. The owl-shaped blade is out, glittering in the light from the sitting room.

They pause, both of them breathing hard. Owlman’s hand holds Joker’s head against the window, his knife pressing against Joker’s jaw. The Joker holds his own knife in his hand, though he can’t remember when he took it out. He can jam it into a joint between the hard panels of Owlman’s costume but wouldn’t be able to do serious damage before Owlman ripped out his throat. Might be good for a laugh, though.

“I remember cutting this smile into your face,” Owlman says, his voice quiet, tightly controlled. His chest rises and falls with the sharp jerks of his breath. His pupils are dilated, black swallowing gold. “I remember holding your head just like this.” The owlarang flashes as Owlman slowly brings it up from Joker’s throat, scraping through the faint beginnings of stubble, peeling up a greasy layer of paint. Without his cowl, Owlman’s neck is bare and corded, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. There’s a thin silver chain around his neck, and where it disappears into the rubber collar of his suit, there is the faint indent of a ring. “You were so…” He wets his lips. “Soft. So scared.”

“Why? What did I do?” The Joker licks his lips in an unconscious echo. “Kill your dog? Kidnap your daughter?” He reaches out and touches the indent of the ring. “ _Fuck_ your _boyfriend_?”

Owlman unexpectedly jerks back. “Don’t touch that,” he snarls.

The Joker lets out a delighted whoop of laughter. His hand snaps out and he grabs Owlman’s ass under the feathers, squeezing, jamming their groins together. “The other me ever blow you so hard you saw _stars_?”

Owlman lets out an animal noise of rage and slams him back against the window again, the owlarang darting in to slide between the Joker’s teeth, the curved wing of it hooking the inside of his cheek. Something goes white and empty for a second behind the Joker’s eyes and then he has his own knife up, sliding between Owlman’s collar and his flesh, cutting through the rubber. It’s just bare flesh underneath, human flesh. He can feel the warmth of it under the flat of his hand as he grabs the ring and yanks it from its chain. He plants his palm and shoves.

Owlman’s blade rips out of the side of the Joker’s mouth and blood bursts. He lets out a hysterical laugh, leaving a spray of red bubbles across Owlman’s cheek. The pain is fresh and bright and grounding.

Owlman’s hand goes to his own neck, grabbing at empty space. “Lost your Delorean?” the Joker taunts, holding it up. “You broke the deal, so the rules of the game are changing. Rule number one: two on one ain’t fair.”

He slides the ring onto his finger and Gotham dissolves around him.

  


* * *

  


Five in the morning and the sun is nowhere near rising. That’s the thing about winter in Gotham. The sun rises later, sets earlier, and that small time in between is so dim and cold that the sun might as well not bother rising at all. It’s enough to suck the good spirits out of the most optimistic man.

Ha, _ha_.

The girl ran off pretty fast when the Jokester’s mallet took out her mugger, but it wasn’t like he was expecting thanks anyway. Her heeled footsteps receded into the distance (and you have to be pretty dumb to be walking down an alley at this time of night—morning, whatever—in _those_ shoes). The mugger struggles back to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. He picks up his knife from where it fell.

“A fucking mallet? You think you’re funny or something?”

“I try.” The Jokester hefts his mallet. “Round two?”

The mugger charges forward, knife extended. The Jokester sidesteps, swings the mallet again. The mugger ducks, darting in. The Jokester reaches down and triggers his belt buckle. The titanium buckle punches the mugger full in the face, knocking him backwards. He falls on his ass, holding his nose. “Fuck,” he says wetly.

The Jokester retracts his belt buckle. The thing is a pain to reset but it’s handy in a pinch. He snaps it back into place. “Round three?”

“You know what works?”

The voice comes from down the alley a little, behind where the mugger has sprawled. There’s a man standing there, one hand in his pocket. He stands with a bit of a slouch, and his hair is a little longer and dyed green, not purple, but there is something _very familiar_ about this guy.

“ _Knives._ ” The man steps forward, his hand withdrawing from his pocket with a switchblade, the other grabbing the mugger’s hair and pulling it back. The knife makes a wet sound that makes the Jokester look away for a second.

The mugger collapses, his throat smiling up at them. The Jokester looks back to see the other man—and what a _funhouse reflection_ he is, right down to the suit—step over the corpse without looking at it. The man has dried blood smeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Stick your knife in the right spot and your problems just… disappear.” The man spreads his hands, stopping two feet in front of him. He cleans the switchblade on the edge of his jacket, then flips it shut and slides it into his pocket.

The Jokester studies him. “Let me guess. My _number one fan_.”

The other man peers at him, squinting. “You’re not even trying, are you? I mean, I have to respect a healthy death wish, but this is just pathetic.” He reaches out to the lapel of the Jokester’s jacket and pulls out the fake flower, tugging the plastic bulb out the buttonhole with it. “I’m guessing you don’t have _anthrax_ in here.”

“Tear gas,” the Jokester says. “Who are you?”

The man tucks the flower into his pocket with the knife. “Do you feel like something’s missing in your life?”

The Jokester takes a step backward and the other man steps forward, keeping the distance between them unchanged. “Sanity, honestly,” says the Jokester, tightening his grip on the mallet.

The other man continues as if he didn’t answer. “Feel like you’re just not complete? You’re missing your other half? The yin to your yang? The Fred to your Ginger? The, ah, _owl_ to your _mouse_?”

The bemusement drains from Jokester, leaving him cold. “If you’re looking for Owlman, he disappeared about two weeks ago.” He licks his lips and the other man’s eyes focus on it.

“Not looking for Owlman.” The man reaches out and his hand closes over the Jokester’s hand where he’s gripping the mallet. “ _Found_ Owlman. Looking for _you_.” He reaches into the pocket with the knife and the Jokester steps back, _shit_ , but instead of a knife he comes out with a ring.

Things get confusing after that.

  


* * *

  


  


* * *

  


With the suit on, he can’t feel the cold.

No one was waiting for him at his bunker at the docks. He was able to park the bike, get his suit and as many weapons as he could carry. There’s no telling when the police or the Joker or the lynch mob will get to this hideout; if they know who he is, there is no telling what else they know about him.

With the suit, he is Batman, and nothing can hurt him. The news must be going crazy right now. The media had exploded with the news of the jailbreak at Arkham last week—forty-three of the most dangerous criminally insane inmates let loose on the city, among them the infamous Joker—but when the news gets out about Bruce Wayne being Batman, that’ll be the icing on the cake.

He’d thought Bruce Wayne was safe from the Joker, or at least as safe as any other citizen of Gotham. He’d thought _Alfred_ —no. He can’t think about that.

The wind is vicious on the fourteenth floor of the First Bank of Gotham, carrying a few beginning flakes of snow. He stands on the ledge, looking down. He’d heard that you black out before you hit the ground. Two seconds to hit the ground from this height.

At what point do you lose consciousness?

There are sirens in the distance but there are always sirens in Gotham. Forty-three psychos let loose on the city. Not counting the psycho who let them loose, but no one knows anything about who that was. Someone with firepower and big plans, apparently.

Screams. He turns his head. Hard to say from where, exactly. Somewhere to the west of him. He steps forward.

He falls.

_One one-thousand._

He spreads his wings.

Two blocks west, he finds the source of the screaming. His gliding descent takes him to a perch on a third floor window ledge. It’s six in the morning and the streets are getting busy, the sun threatening the horizon from behind a thick gauze of clouds. People are pouring out of a Starbucks, clawing over each other to escape. A few people clot in the doorway, all trying to get out at once, and then they burst forward and scatter. They leave the doorway empty save for one man, who steps out onto the sidewalk and watches them run.

Batman can see the greasepaint from a hundred feet away. He launches himself off the ledge before he can even think. His wings catch the wind and he slides through the air, a human sized bullet winging straight for his target.

The Joker’s head snaps up just before he hits and there’s a fraction of a second of surprise before Batman’s shoulder connects with his chest and the two of them are smashing to the pavement, bouncing, rolling. A mallet or something goes skittering away across the pavement. Batman lands on top and draws back his arm because though he can’t kill the bastard, he can break his teeth off at the _roots_ and he’s going to enjoy it.

“Wait!”

For some inexplicable reason, Batman pauses. “Give me one good reason,” he snarls, his arm still drawn back, fist just begging to be buried in this asshole’s face. It’s going to have to be a _really good reason._

The Joker lets out a laugh tinged with hysteria, squirming underneath him, trying to get an arm free. “I’m _pretty sure_ you have the wrong guy.”

“Not good enough.” Batman swings.

Something punches him in the groin, lifting him bodily off of the Joker, sending his fist to glance off the Joker’s cheekbone instead of drilling into his mouth as planned. Batman folds, the air gone out of him. The Joker rolls out from underneath him, one hand still holding his belt buckle, the other cupping his rapidly swelling jaw.

“You people _never learn_ ,” he gasps.

Batman retches, spitting bile onto the sidewalk in response. The sirens in the distance have gotten much closer.

The Joker looks down the street, then staggers to his feet. “I think you cracked my _ribs_.” He draws a wheezing breath, then turns and starts walking away down the sidewalk, retracting his belt buckle.

Batman wipes the back of his wrist across his mouth and gets to his feet, his breath still trapped in his throat. The pedestrians who haven’t fled are watching them from a healthy distance. A police car appears at the end of the street. Things are going to go nowhere pretty fast.

Two long strides take him to the Joker, who half turns, one hand groping for something in his lapel that seems to be missing. Batman hooks his arm around the man’s ribcage, ignoring his grunt of pain. “We’re not done here,” he says, pulling the grappling gun from his belt. He points up and pulls the trigger.

The ground leaves them behind. The Joker kicks once, then freezes when Batman’s grip starts to slip. He clutches at Batman’s arm convulsively and the two of them spin in the air, rising up towards the roof of the office building that houses the Starbucks. The police cars arrive below them.

They reach the roof and Batman climbs over the ledge, dragging the Joker with him, unwilling to let go of him to make climbing easier. The Joker is struggling again so he wraps his arm around the Joker’s neck, squeezing enough to partially constrict his airflow.

“Alfred died so I wouldn’t become a murderer,” he snarls in the Joker’s ear. “I’m not going to become one for _you_.”

“ ’Preciate it,” rasps the Joker.

“I’m going to deliver you to the police station and let them decide what your punishment will be. I think a lobotomy is the _least_ you have to worry about.”

“Less—appreciative—” The Joker sucks in a wheezing breath. “Making a—mistake—”

“I don’t have time for your games.” Batman releases the Joker’s throat, letting him slump to the ground, and takes handcuffs from his belt. The Joker shudders, his head tipping back against the tar, gulping air. Batman pulls one of his arms up and snaps the cuffs on his wrist, then gets the other arm.

“Are you… _colorblind_?” the Joker gasps towards the sky. “I’ve seen the guy…you’re looking for. He looks…nothing like me. Terrible…fashion sense. Green hair? Who does that?”

Batman grabs his collar and drags him to his feet. “I’ve seen him too,” he says. “This is his face.” He grabs the Joker’s chin, twists his face to the side. “This is his nose. This is his mouth.” He swipes the pad of his thumb through the grease paint, revealing the ripples of scar tissue at the corners of his mouth. “These are his scars. Those are his…” He stops.

The Joker rolls his eyes up to look at him and those aren’t the Joker’s eyes. These aren’t murky green. They’re a dark purple red, like clotted blood.

His hair is purple, not green. Maybe it’s possible that he dyed his hair sometime in the few hours since Batman saw him last, but is it possible to get it to look that faded and outgrown?

“He brought me here,” the Joker says—no, not the Joker. “I don’t even know how we got here. There was a ring— he ran somewhere when we arrived. I didn’t see where. Everyone was panicking.”

“And you’re dressed like him because—?”

“I’m not dressed like him.” The man looks offended. “ _He’s_ dressed like _me_.”

“You’re insane.”

Something flickers in the man’s eyes. “I’m not.”

There’s a rattling sound to their left. The roof access door shakes and then there is the sound of a ring of keys jangling together. The cavalry has arrived.

“A lobotomy, huh?” The man sounds resigned.

It’s crazy. This man could be the Joker’s twin. He’s _dressed_ like him. He _talks_ like him. He even has that same smell: sweat and hair dye and greasepaint. And even if he’s not actually _him_ , he could be some sort of elaborate trap. Some sort of joke.

He’s going to regret this.

Snowflakes are spinning down on them now. The sun has backed off, leaving them in a snowy predawn light that is going to make it a little hard to get anywhere unnoticed but will only get worse the longer he waits.

He grabs the man’s cuffed wrists and lifts them, dropping them around his neck. “Hold on,” he says, wrapped his arm around the man’s waist. He takes out his grappling gun again and steps to the edge of the roof. “Let’s get out of here.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s something about the winter that makes business boom in Gotham. Howie counts cash at his kitchen table, tugging on a twenty to make sure it’s not two bills stuck together.

Something about how the winter makes everything so cold and depressing. Everyone starts turning towards a little pick-me-up, a little something to keep them warm at night. It’s always the coldest places where they party the hardest, and Gotham’s one cold bitch of a city.

“Boss, I think somebody’s here.” Becks is up and pacing to the door and back, back and forth, his fingers drumming his thigh. “Boss, I think it’s the cops.”

Fucking paranoid meth-head. That’s why Howie never touches the stuff. Becks is always swatting at invisible spider webs and hearing the cops crashing in the front door. Howie wraps a rubber band around a stack of bills and starts on the next pile. “It’s not the cops.”

“Boss, I think it is.” Becks disappears into the dark living room, drawing his gun.

Howie lets him go. This cash isn’t going to count itself.

There’s a crash in the living room, the sound of someone thudding to the floor. Howie pauses in his counting. “Becks, I told you before to turn on a light before you go sneaking around in there.”

Silence. Maybe the asshole knocked himself unconscious. So long as he didn’t knock his brains out. Howie doesn’t need that kind of attention. He hesitates a second, thinking about getting up to investigate, then shrugs. It’s easier to keep track of the count without Becks fidgeting in the corner.

There’s movement in the doorway, a shadow stepping back into the room. “If you broke something, you’re paying for it,” Howie says to his stack of twenties. _Sixty, eighty, three hundred._

“How much?” It’s not Becks’s voice. Howie looks up, startled.

The man fills the doorway. He’s wearing some sort of mask, something with a sharp nose and pointy ears. He’s dragging something heavy, and when Howie gapes at him, he lets it drop to the floor. Becks’s head lolls back, neck broken.

“Wha—?” Howie drops the sheaf of bills in his hand, scattering them over the tabletop. “Who—?”

“You’re Howie Sommers,” says the man. “You supply meth to the Narrows.”

“I, uh. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Howie pushes back his chair, groping for the gun at the small of his back.

The man grabs the edge of the table and flips it up, knocking Howie backwards. Money goes everywhere, cascading to the floor in an avalanche. The man leaps over the table and grabs Howie by the collar, hauling him up. He pulls Howie’s gun from the back of his pants and presses the barrel against Howie’s neck.

“You buy it from suppliers and sell it to the dealers at a profit,” the man growls. “Don’t play games with me. I know exactly who you are.”

“You want cash?” Howie gasps. “Take it. There’s sixty thousand on the table right there. Don’t shoot me.”

“I want money,” the man echoes him. “I want ten percent.”

“Of—of—of the sixty? That’s, uh—” He tries to do the math in his head but the gun has robbed him of his basic math skills. “That’s, um…”

“I want ten percent of everything you make,” the man says. His voice is low and calm and rational, and the gun doesn’t move. “I’m going to have my people come by here once a week and you’re going to make sure that they get ten percent of what you make.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Howie splutters. “Ten percent? That’s criminal!”

The man smiles. “Ten percent, or I pay a visit upstate. You know what’s upstate, Howie?”

Howie’s gut clenches. “I d-d-don’t—”

“You know what’s upstate, Howie. Tell me. What’s upstate?”

“My—my m-m-m—”

“Your mother, Howie. You know what I’m going to do to your mother?”

“Please.” Tears are squeezing out of the corners of Howie’s eyes. Snot gathers over his lip. “Please, don’t—”

“You ever heard of a Columbian necktie? That’s when you make a cut right here…” The man draws a line across Howie’s throat with the gun. “And then you reach inside and pull the tongue out through the hole, so it hangs down your neck like a tie. You think your mother would look good with a Columbian necktie?”

“I’ll give you ten percent. P-p-please, don’t hurt my mother. Please.”

“Good.” The man eases back, lets Howie’s feet touch the floor. He takes the gun away and steps back over the table. “You’re a smart man, Howie. You made the right choice.”

“I’ll have to raise my prices,” Howie says, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist.

“Don’t worry about it.” The man bends over and picks up three stacks of cash. “I’ve been talking to a lot of your colleagues. Most of them had your kind of sense. Looks like prices will be going up everywhere.” He shows Howie the cash in his hand. “Ten percent of sixty thousand is six thousand. But here, I’ll just take five. I broke your bodyguard. Buy yourself a nicer one.” He turns and steps through the doorway, into the dark living room, and disappears into the shadows.

  


* * *

  


There are places in the city that have been left empty, pockets of stillness in the otherwise overcrowded humanity. People die and leave property behind and sometimes, for whatever reason, the city doesn’t absorb it again.

Harvey Dent’s condo has been frozen in time for six months now, everything the way he left it the morning before the accident, the morning before Rachel died. His parents are retired in Florida and haven’t had the time or the heart to junk his stuff and sell the condo. When Batman opens the terrace door and steps inside, the air swirls for the first time since in months.

“Not home too often, are you?” The man with the Joker’s face is peering around, the chain on his handcuffs jingling faintly.

“This isn’t my house.” Batman glances back at the terrace, where their feet have left faint trails in the dusting of snow. The falling snow will fill their tracks soon enough. He shuts the door and draws the curtains, sending them into gloomy shadow.

“Oh, breaking and entering? I haven’t done this since I was a _kid_.” The man actually sounds cheerful. He stops at the edge of an area rug and looks down at his wet shoes.

“This was Harvey Dent’s apartment. Don’t touch anything.” Batman moves to the television, wary of noise. The condo is luxurious enough that the walls are probably thick but loud sounds will alert the neighbors. He turns on the television and mutes it, flicking through to the news.

“Dent,” the man says, as if that means something to him. He steps around the area rug, wandering vaguely towards the far wall, where a bookcase is crammed with books and other knickknacks.

The first news station that isn’t on a commercial break shows a helicopter view of the apartment building where Bruce Wayne lives. It’s footage from earlier, showing police cars surrounding the building, lights flashing in the pre-dawn light. Another camera angle shows a body bag being lifted into the back of an ambulance. In the corner of the screen they show a picture of Alfred, his driver’s license photo.

“How _eerie_.” The man is at the bookcase, holding a framed photograph. He sounds almost awed. Batman moves around the couch and approaches him. It’s a photo of Harvey and Rachel, both of them grinning into the camera. Batman takes it from his hands and puts it back on the shelf.

“I told you not to touch anything.”

The man shrugs, his eyes sliding away. “Reminded me of someone I used to know.”

Sudden anger rises in Batman at the comment. What is _wrong_ with him, letting this man wander freely here? He doesn’t know the first thing about him and yet he’s lowering his guard?

“Turn around and put your hands on your head,” he snaps. “I’m going to check you for weapons.” Of course, if the man had any weapons, he’d likely have used them already.

“ _Dammit_.” The man sighs. “I left the mallet at the Starbucks, didn’t I?” He licks the corner of his mouth and turns, resting his cuffed hands on the crown of his head.

Batman lifts the back of the man’s jacket, checks the small of his back, his armpits, his chest. The inside pockets of the jacket are empty except for two dollars in change and some lint. In his pants pockets there is half a pack of matches and nothing else. There are no holsters, no sheathes. No weapons of any kind, except for that goddamned belt. Batman unbuckles it and yanks out the belt, looping it around his own utility belt. “What’s your name, anyway?” he growls. “I can’t keep calling you the Joker.”

“-Ster. Joke- _ster_. And, uh, it’s Jackie, actually.”

“Take off your shoes, Jackie.”

Jackie kicks them off. His socks have a brightly colored checkerboard pattern and his shoes are old brown leather. Batman runs his fingers over the sole and the heel, checking for hidden compartments. They’re just regular shoes, a little worse for wear. He drops them on the ground again.

“I’m guessing you’re something bat related,” Jackie says, peering over his shoulder at him. “The Bat? Bat Boy?” He bites his lip, suppressing a snort of hilarity.

“Batman.” Batman takes a step back. “I’m done.” He waits for Jackie to lower his hands.

Jackie isn’t listening. He’s looking somewhere behind Batman, at the television. Batman turns and looks. There are two pictures up on the screen: one, an artist’s rendition of Batman; the other, stock footage of Bruce Wayne at a press junket. Bruce turns, smiles, waves, and then loops back. Turn, smile, wave.

“Thomas Wayne,” Jackie says without inflection. Batman glances back at him. The amusement has drained from his face, leaving him blank.

“Bruce,” Batman says. “Not Thomas.”

Their eyes meet in a long moment of mutual reckoning. Finally Jackie takes in a breath.

“I think we need to talk.”

  


* * *

  


“That was how they knew who I was.” Batman leans back in the armchair, staring blankly at the television. “Because he _is_ me, or close enough.”

The television, muted, shows a commercial for Nostalgia cologne. Jackie has a glass of water from the sink and is rolling it between his palms. Batman has reluctantly removed his handcuffs.

“It’s funny,” Jackie says after a pause. He smiles faintly when Batman turns his head. “In _my_ Gotham, Owlman and his Crime Society of America have taken over the city, and I just—” He flutters a hand— “ _struggle against it._ Whereas in _your_ Gotham, the city runs more or less as it _should_ and my alter ego fails to bring it crashing down. Apparently I only exist to throw a _wrench_ in the works once in a while.”

“You think this is how Gotham should be?”

Jackie’s hands still, the water quivering in the glass. “You’re expected utopia?”

Batman frowns. “I’m hoping for something more than this.”

Jackie’s lips quirk up. “Optimist.”

The comment is enough to startle a laugh from Batman, which makes Jackie’s wry smirk turn into something more genuine for a second.

Batman studies him thoughtfully. “Do you know where Owlman works from? His base of operations?”

Jackie lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “He calls it his Aerie. I’ve never seen it. Assume it’s high up.”

“He’s probably staying in someplace similar now.”

“Someplace tall in _Gotham? That_ narrows it down.”

“It’s a start.” Batman watches Jackie lick the corner of his mouth. It’s surreal to watch him sitting on the couch, the same bundle of nervous tics and quirks that the Joker has, yet different somehow. Is the Joker’s real name Jackie? Did they have the same past, or are they two different people whose lives somehow converged in the strangest way?

Jackie’s eyelashes flicker as he becomes aware that Batman is watching him. He turns his face to the side, looking away from Batman. “He always had lots of money from his protection rackets and extortion. He wouldn’t stay anywhere that didn’t have the nicest valet service.”

It’s absurd that Batman’s throat tightens at that. _Alfred_. He’s really gone, isn’t he? Batman stands abruptly. “I’m going to stay here until sundown. We can’t go out there with the whole city looking for us now.”

A crease appears between Jackie’s eyes at the suddenly sharp tone in Batman’s voice but he says nothing. Batman strides from the room, heading down the hallway into the first darkened room he finds. He just needs a second to get away, to get a breath of air.

It’s Harvey’s bedroom. The bed is neatly made and there is a folded pile of laundry on the end of the bed. On the top of the pile, neatly folded, is a woman’s bra. Rachel.

He can’t breathe. It smells like Rachel’s perfume, like she just walked through here an hour ago, not six months. He made such a mistake coming here. He thought it was empty and completely missed the fact that it was full of ghosts, leaving their perfume behind, smiling from photographs, smiling from other people’s faces. Wearing ridiculous costumes and thinking they can save the world.

He shuts the bedroom door and drags his mask off his face. The air is cool on his sweaty skin. He sucks in a breath, smelling Rachel.

 _Your true love was_ justice, _not Rachel Dawes. Rachel was the symbol of everything good and pure and precious that you fought for, but you didn’t_ love _her._

The Joker knows _nothing_ about love. Batman can feel the loss of Rachel in his chest like a hole. They never had a chance to even begin a relationship but now they never will. Twinned with that is the space that Harvey Dent left—and it’s true he didn’t _love_ Harvey, but he loved what Harvey stood for: law and light and the chance for retirement. Batman was the one who was supposed to disappear. Not Harvey.

It will be nine hours before the sun sets. He should take off the suit and rest. He should find some food. He should, perhaps, sleep, although sleep is something that doesn’t come easily to him at the best of times.

This apartment is suffocating, but it’s too late now. He’s trapped here. The grey morning light is pressing thickly against the window shades. He is recognizable wherever he goes. He can no longer put on the Bruce Wayne mask. Everyone knows who he is, and now they know _what_ he is, too.

There is movement in the hallway and then the sound of running water. Batman rests his head against the door and looks down at the empty mask in his hands. The eyeholes look back up at him.

He can hear his father’s voice from somewhere twenty years in the past. _Bruce, why do we fall?_

 _We can’t always pick ourselves up,_ Batman tells the mask. He opens the door and steps back into the hall.

The door to the bathroom is open and Jackie is standing at the sink, jacket draped over the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A brief flicker of unease crosses his face when he catches Batman’s unmasked reflection in the mirror but all he says is: “I hope you don’t mind that I’m touching his _soap_.”

“Did I do that?” Batman gestures at the long tear in the purple vest. The edges of the tear are frilled with blood.

Jackie unbuttons the vest and then lifts the edge of the shirt. There’s a long, raw scrape across the pallid contours of his ribcage. “Just a little _rugburn_ ,” he says dryly.

Batman winces. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.” He glances at Jackie again. “Actually I think I might be more comfortable if you took off the makeup.”

“And _I_ might be more comfortable if you put your mask back _on_.”

Batman wordlessly pulls the mask back over his head. Jackie rolls his eyes, picking up a washcloth from the towel rack.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Batman steps out of the bathroom door and returns to the living room. The television shows Mayor Garcia standing at a podium, staring grimly into the camera, his thick black eyebrows knotted with anger. Batman finds the remote and turns up the volume.

“—rates have skyrocketed, and this is due in major part to one man. Once this city worshipped the kind of vigilante justice that Batman stood for, but time has shown his brand of heroics to be nothing more than a dangerous hypocrisy, the idle pastime of a bored playboy. Vigilantism is a crime, and he chose to become a criminal rather than obey the law. When he had to make a choice between innocent lives and revealing his own identity, he chose to spare himself and his reputation. And when Harvey Dent threatened to become the symbol of justice for this city, Batman turned to murder, leaving six dead, including two fine policemen. This morning he turned to murder again. For the two men who lost their lives last night and for the city of Gotham who has put up with your twisted ideas of justice for too long, I have this to say, Bruce Wayne: you are not above the law.”

Batman mutes the television again, bile rising in his throat. The mayor continues talking. There was a time when the mayor would come to the parties that Bruce threw, would drink his fine champagne and laugh at his jokes.

“They don’t like you very much, do they?”

Batman turns. Jackie stands in the doorway, his eyes on Batman. The greasepaint is gone, just the faintest shadows leftover from the black makeup around his eyes. He looks younger without the makeup gathering in every crease in his face. The scars stand out vividly, knotted clots of scar tissue stretching halfway to his ears. If it weren’t for the scars, he could have been attractive.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Jackie shrugs and moves back to the couch to sit down again. “I didn’t say that you did.” He glances towards the television, where the mayor is still gesticulating angrily.

Batman moves away from the television to the terrace towards. He draws the curtain aside to look out at their footprints. The snow has smoothed it out, leaving no trace of their passing. “They thought I was a criminal before. It hasn’t changed things. It was always dangerous to put on this mask.”

Never dangerous to take it off, until now.

  


* * *

  


Out of the heat of the cameras, Mayor Garcia loosens his tie. “That was better than I’d hoped.”

Lorraine pauses in her typing. “You have eighty-four messages, sir,” she says. “And Commissioner Gordon is waiting in your office.”

“Anything important? The messages, I mean?”

“Mostly just looking for a comment on the Wayne affair. I referred them to your press conference.”

“Great. Thanks, Lorrie.” Garcia crosses the room to the door of his office and pushes it open.

Jim Gordon is sitting in one of the leather armchairs by the window. His rise from sergeant to lieutenant to head of major crimes to Commissioner has been meteoric but the man’s appearance has yet to catch up. He still looks like a tired, overwhelmed police officer on a beat, his clothes a little more well tailored but still wrinkled from being worn too long. The television is on, showing the local news. The news anchor is still recapping Garcia’s press conference.

“Jim,” says Garcia jovially. “Can Lorrie get you anything? Coffee? Soda?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Jim stands and shakes hands with the mayor, his grip uncomfortably firm. Garcia waves to the seat.

“Sit, sit. I take it you saw my presser?” He takes his own seat behind his desk, where Lorraine has left him a typed page of messages.

Gordon doesn’t sit. “I did. It seemed to go well.”

Jim was never good at lying. Garcia can hear the faint note of disapproval in his voice. He smiles.

“They didn’t crucify me for how—” the mayor pauses briefly, “— _the city_ collaborated with Batman in the past. Apparently they’re too excited about who he turned out to be. Honestly, I’m a bit shocked myself. Wayne? Really?”

Gordon shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “So it seems.”

“Well, I just hope it doesn’t hurt me in the election coming up soon. Figures this would have to happen the week before an election, huh?” Garcia smiles. “You’re not here to talk to me about that, are you?” He relaxes back in his chair. Lorraine appears in the doorway and he holds up a finger. “Just my usual coffee, Lorrie. Jim, you’re sure?”

“I’m fine.” Jim waits while Garcia waves Lorrie away. “There have been more developments in the Narrows.”

Garcia sighs. “I knew you weren’t here with good news. What’s up?”

Gordon starts to pace, his shoulders hunched. “Apparently this new guy calls himself Owlman. He’s started taking over the Narrows with a vengeance. A lot of the lowest criminals—the drug dealers, the pimps, some of the businesses down there—are paying him protection already.”

“Taking over Maroni’s old territory?”

“That and more. It’s been two weeks, and just about everyone who used to pay Maroni protection is paying this new guy instead.”

Garcia steeples his fingers, frowning at Gordon. “How could they be falling down so fast?”

Gordon’s mouth twists and he stops pacing, standing by the television, vibrating with tension. “Habit. It hasn’t been that long since the city was under Falcone’s control. Maroni wasn’t half the man Falcone was but he kept things going. Gotham has changed a lot in the past year, but it hasn’t come so far that it can’t fall again. Apparently this Owlman is vicious and he has the money to buy the muscle to back up his threats. If we hadn’t taken out the mob, they would probably be fighting him for this territory, but Harvey Dent disabled them. There’s no one standing in the way.”

“Owlman, hmm?” Garcia chews his lower lip. “Do you think he’s related to Batman at all? Maybe a copycat?”

Gordon takes in a breath through his nostrils and then pauses. He seems to be searching for words. Finally he focuses on the mayor.

“Word on the street has it that he _is_ Batman,” he says. “We talked to some people last night who said he took off his mask in front of them, and they said it was Bruce Wayne.”

Garcia stares at him. Lorraine knocks on the door and then eases into the room with a tray. She sets it down on the mayor’s desk and retreats.

“When Falcone was in charge, there was a lot of corruption in all parts of the city government,” Gordon says quietly when the door clicks shut again. “We’ve cleared a lot of that out, but like I said before, things can change. If Owlman gets enough power, people are going to start turning to him to get a piece. We’re in a recession and that always makes people desperate.”

Garcia lifts the pot of creamer and pours it into his coffee, absently watching the coffee lighten. “Do you think it’s going to be as bad as when Falcone was in power?”

“Falcone took thirty years to get as powerful as he was. At the rate he’s going now, Owlman will reach that level in six months. I think it’s going to be worse.”

“So what do you suggest we do?”

Gordon spreads his hands. “We have to be tough. We have to start fighting him now. Crack down on crime in the Narrows while we still have an uncorrupted police force. Make sure no one has the chance to switch sides.”

Garcia heaves a heavy sigh and picks up his teaspoon. “You’re probably right. Let me know what you need to get it done and you can have it. We did this before, right? We can do it again.”

Gordon smiles bitterly. “Last time we had Batman on our side.”

  


* * *

  


Gordon steps out of the office looking tired. He doesn’t have as imposing a presence as the last Commissioner, Lorraine muses, but he’s infinitely more approachable.

“Are you sure you don’t want a coffee, Commissioner?” she offers, rising from her desk.

He smiles wanly. “No thanks, Lorraine. I appreciate it, though. How’s your husband doing?”

“He’s fine.” Lorraine beams at him. “He’s putting in for retirement soon.”

“That time already? I hope you’re sticking around for a while longer. I don’t know what Tony would do without you.”

“You’re so kind.”

He gives her a little wave and heads out the door. She sinks back in her chair and the phone rings.

“Lorraine, it’s Abigail,” comes the warm voice of the deputy mayor’s assistant. “Mark is running late for his meeting. He should be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, I’ll let him know,” Lorraine replies. Abigail hangs up and Lorraine presses the intercom button. “The deputy mayor will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Lorrie,” Mayor Garcia replies, sounding tired.

The phone flashes with another three voicemails. Everyone wants to hear the mayor’s comments on Bruce Wayne, Lorraine muses. She lifts the phone and dials in the voicemail code.

Mark comes in twenty minutes later, shrugging off his coat. “Sorry I’m late,” he says to her. “Meeting ran over. Is Tony in there?”

Lorraine presses the intercom. “The deputy mayor has arrived.”

There is no response. She presses the button again. “Mr. Mayor?”

Again, nothing. Mark raises his eyebrows. Lorraine rises from her chair. “Excuse me a second.”

She knocks quietly on the door to the mayor’s office, then opens the door and slips inside. It wouldn’t be the first time that the mayor has fallen asleep between meetings.

Anthony Garcia is sitting in his desk chair, his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. His arms rest limply on the desk, wrists up. Between his wrists is a single wedge of shiny metal, something machined to look like an owl, worn brassy with use in the finger holes and edged in red at the blade.

Garcia’s shirt has been torn open, leaving his undershirt exposed. In red marker—and no, Lorraine knows it’s not red marker, and she also knows that she is screaming, but these are distant things—someone has written words in neat block letters, soaking nearly black in the middles of the letters and wicking away to cherry red at the edges.

I AM THE LAW.


	5. Chapter 5

The news breaks at noon, shoving paparazzi footage of Bruce Wayne and a couple supermodels (and Bruce Wayne and the actress of the week, and Bruce Wayne and the entire Russian ballet) to the backburner. Instead, there is shaky footage of an ambulance and a body bag on a stretcher and the anchor breathlessly reports that Mayor Anthony Garcia, age forty, has been murdered.

“I can’t wait for sunset,” says the Batman, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw set. “I have to go out there.”

“I’m coming too,” says the Jokester, bouncing to his feet.

Batman is already halfway to the terrace doors. “No,” he growls. His voice has shifted back down into the voice he uses as Batman, the voice he uses when he’s very angry. “You stay here. I’m not carrying you with me.”

The Jokester circles the couch and reaches the terrace doors as Batman steps out into the snow. “No, no, no, no, no. It had to be Owlman, and he’s _my_ enemy to fight.”

“If anyone sees your face, you’re dead.” Batman strides to the terrace railing. The wind whips his cape.

Jokester steps out into the snow after him. “So are you!”

“I’m bulletproof.” Batman steps up onto the railing. “You want to follow, come on.” He drops.

 _Fucking flying rat_. The Jokester steps back inside and rushes to the hall, leaving wet footprints on the floor. He has no spare makeup to put on and maybe it’s best that his face is bare for now but without it he feels like a freak. And yeah, he knows how weird that is but it’s true. At least he _chooses_ to wear clown makeup.

In Dent’s bedroom (Harvey Dent, not the Eve Dent that he once knew, although they have the same taste in books, the same dimpled smile) he finds a hooded sweatshirt in the pile of laundry on the bed. He drags it on over his green jacket and pulls the hood over his head, shoving his hair out of sight. It’ll be enough to disguise him for now.

Back in the living room, the television is still on. There’s a man giving another press conference. This one’s square jawed and heavyset, and the caption reads Acting Mayor Mark Silvestri.

“…suspending Police Commissioner Jim Gordon pending an investigation into his collaboration with Batman. We will also be suspending any of his current investigations pending review—”

The Jokester turns off the television and heads for the door, grabbing the keys that dangle on a hook. The front door to the apartment leads to a hallway with an elevator, which probably leads to the foyer of the building with a doorman on duty. The Jokester turns left and hits the stairs.

The stairs let out to a hall with the service elevator and the back door to the building. He takes a quarter from his pocket and slides it into the tongue of the lock, holding it open. Maybe it will still be there when he gets back.

It’s like the mirror image of the Gotham that he knows. The buildings are mostly the same, or in the right general area. The air is cold and wet, snowflakes swirling in the air. If this were _his_ Gotham, Owlman would be uptown, in the business district. He rules the nasty sections of town but doesn’t like to live in them.

The nearest monorail platform is a block away. The machine gives him a pass for a dollar seventy-five, which is the extent of his cash. He’ll be walking back, apparently. There is no one at the platform and the train, when it comes, is mostly empty, affording him a spot in the back corner of the car, opposite a row of empty seats. He keeps his head down.

Jackie has trouble remembering faces most of the time. Voices, sure, that’s easy. The way someone moves is pretty unique too. Faces, though, they blend together. Two eyes, one nose, one mouth, it’s not like there’s a lot of _variety_ there. Change someone’s hair color or hairstyle or clothes and he could be an entirely different person. Even his own face was hard to recognize when he looked in the mirror. _Before_ , anyway.

He still doesn’t remember faces, but now people remember _his_. He’s discovered that people don’t stare at scars. Their eyes slide away, pretending not to notice, pretending they’re not uneasy, but they _do_ see them. People see scars, and they don’t forget them. Especially if you were halfway-famous once, and everyone came to your shows just on the off chance that you would die that night, and the news reports of what happened to you were local legend for a little while. But even when you’re nobody, people remember scars. They fear scars.

People see someone dressed as a clown and they don’t forget _that_ , either, but at least they’re not afraid. Sometimes they even _smile_.

The city scrapes by below the monorail. The buildings get taller and more modern. A mother and her son get on at the next stop and sit down right across from the Jokester. The train pulls away from the platform, slowly gaining speed.

“Psst. Mom.” The little boy’s whisper is loud enough to hear. _Shit_. Lowering his head a little more, Jackie peeks up at them. The boy is tugging on his mother’s arm.

“He was on _television_ ,” the boy whispers.

The woman glances at him and it’s morbidly fascinating to see her expression slip from curiosity to shock to dead blank horror. She freezes there like a squirrel in the road, staring at him.

“I get that _all the time_ ,” Jackie says.

The boy picks up on his mother’s fear and looks back and forth between the two of them in unease.

“I personally don’t see the resemblance,” Jackie adds. “I mean, apart from the, you know.” He makes a gesture towards his face. “I always thought I looked more like a skinnier David Berkowitz.” He falters. Is David Berkowitz even an actor in this universe?

The woman pulls her son tight against her side and glances out the window as the train starts to slow for the next stop. She’s going to call the police as soon as she gets off the train, he knows, but if he follows her off the train she’s going to freak out.

He sighs and stands up. The woman shrinks in her seat. He moves to the doors, holding the handrail. The brakes of the monorail squeal as the train starts to come to a stop. There are a few people waiting on the platform. He keeps his head down. The train stops.

The doors open. Something squirts Jackie in the face before he can step out the door and he coughs, wiping his eyes. Someone steps past him onto the train.

“Hello there, ladies and gentleman,” says the man with the burlap sack over his head, stopping in the middle of the car. Two more men follow him, both wearing gas masks. They’re holding spray cans like the sort used to fumigate a house, except the brand has been covered with masking tape and a big black ‘X’ has been scrawled on the side. The doors to the train close and the train lurches a little as it moves away from the platform.

“We’re going to do a little experiment,” the man continues. He looks sort of like a scarecrow, the burlap sack bunched in a sneer. People are standing up, backing away to the other end of the car. The men in the gas masks move towards them. One of the cans opens with a hiss and purple smoke starts pouring out, crawling along the floor like dry ice. Someone opens the door to the next car and people spill through in a panic. Someone falls, screaming and clawing at his face.

“Normally I’d be selling this stuff on the streets, but my dealers have all had their legs broken by Owlman so now I have a surplus. He thinks there’s no good business in driving customers insane but I want to show him the kind of fun we can have.”

He triggers his own can and the cabin starts to get hazy with smoke. The two men have moved into the next car, following the passengers. The little boy is screaming, backed into the corner. The woman is banging on the door to the train engine, trying to get it open, but it’s locked. The engineer inside is shaking his head, eyes wide, radio to his mouth. The train accelerates, heading for the next station.

The man with the burlap sack turns in a full circle, watching the effects. “I want to show him that you can’t put a price on…” He faces the Jokester and stops.

The Jokester punches him in the face.

There’s something under the mask, some sort of air filter or something that cuts into his knuckles when he punches but the man goes down anyway, hitting the far door. The smoking can drops to the floor and bounces under a seat. The Jokester scrambles after it and picks it up. Purple smoke tumbles down his knuckles. There is no way to shut it off.

The scarecrow man is holding his face with one hand as he staggers to his feet. “Ahahaha. I thought you liked chaos?”

The Jokester wings the can at him. The man ducks and the Jokester lunges at him, slamming him back into the door again. He grabs the mask and rips it off the man’s head. The man has a split lip and a smirk.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” the Jokester says, knocking his head into the glass again. The man’s eyes go unfocused.

He lets the man slump to the ground and then looks around. The woman and the little boy are under the row of seats, staring at him in horror.

“You got something I can tie him with? Belt? Bra strap? …Handcuffs?”

The woman is blank with terror. Her purse is on the floor, spilling a pen and an eyeglass case. The purse has a long leather strap that might do the trick. He grabs it.

The man lolls, half conscious, while the Jokester lashes him to the railing. Somewhere down the train there are two gunshots and the Jokester reflexively ducks. The other two men are somewhere on the train, sending the rest of the passengers into insanity.

“If he moves, tackle him,” he says to the woman and boy. They stare at him glassily. He gets up and heads to the door to the next car. The LED screen over the door is reading NEXT STOP: GRAND CENTRAL. Soon there will be a _lot_ of panicked people.

In the next car, one woman has cracked the plexiglass window. Her arms are raw and bleeding and she’s struggling to yank the glass from the frame and crawl through. The city whips by the window.

Two men are struggling on the floor. One is punching the other repeatedly in the face. Neither of them are the men with the gasmasks. The Jokester grabs the man’s arm before he can punch again. “Stop it!”

The man looks up and screams, scrambling away from him. The other man flops like a fish, his eyes swollen shut. Something clatters to the floor—part of the plexiglass window. The Jokester turns and lunges at the woman as she starts to fling herself from the window. He pulls her back kicking and screaming and they fall to the floor. His hood falls back.

Gunshots crack the wall above them. The Jokester lets go of the woman and she crawls under a row of seats. He rolls to the side, more bullets pinging the floor. He lands on his stomach and looks up.

One of the men with the gasmasks is in the doorway to the next car, but his gasmask has been pulled askew. His eyes are wide and he is swinging the gun around, pointing first at the woman, then at the Jokester, then at the unconscious man on the floor. The Jokester goes still as the gun swings back to him.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the man mutters. “No, no, not you, not you, no.” The gun wavers, aiming at the Jokester’s face. “Not you, not you, no, no.”

The woman scrabbles at the far door, trying to work it open. The gun swings to follow her.

“No!” shouts the Jokester. The gun swings back to him. The Jokester drags in a shaky breath. “Don’t shoot.”

“Don’t shoot,” the man mumbles. “Don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t shoot.”

“You don’t want to shoot anyone,” the Jokester whispers. His palms are cupping humidity on the floor and there is a clenched knot of fear behind his sternum. “ _Don’t shoot anyone._ ”

There’s a bright, acrid smell of urine and the man’s pants are darkening at the front. His arm is shaking, the barrel of the gun jiggling. His breath is coming a little faster.

“Don’t shoot,” whispers the man.

“Don’t shoot,” the Jokester repeats. He straightens his elbows, slowing pushing himself up to his knees.

“ _Get away from me_!” screams the man, recoiling. The gun swings up and he points it under his own chin, his eyes cringing shut, already anticipating the shot. He pulls the trigger.

Red paints the ceiling and rains down on them. Everyone is screaming, struggling to get away from the shot. The Jokester is frozen in place, his breath stopped in his throat. _He pulled the trigger. He pulled the trigger. You can’t save anyone, can you?_

The body falls to its knees and slumps to the floor, the gun sliding out of its grip. The Jokester’s joints unlock and he grabs the gun before anyone else can get it. People scatter, the woman getting the other door open and running back the way Jackie came.

The train is starting to slow. They’re almost at Grand Central. The windows all go dark as they move underground, the interior lights leaving everything yellow. The Jokester gets to his feet. There is one more man on this train that he needs to stop.

In the next car there are two people sprawled on the floor, leaking blood. The far door is held open by another body and at the end of the next car, the last car, people are swarming on something, arms flailing, attacking. He moves through the cars, stepping over the bodies. His face is wet and he wipes his cheek. Blood has condensed on his face from where it misted the air. His stomach lurches but he swallows hard, holding it back.

He enters the last car. The people are crawling over each other, clawing and beating at each other. He aims the gun at the floor between his feet and pulls the trigger.

The sound is loud and sharp in the small space and even he startles at the sound. People cringe away, faces turning to him. He sees nothing but blind terror and rage on these faces. These aren’t people anymore.

“Stop it! _STOP IT_!” he roars. He pulls the trigger again, the bullet slamming into the floor. He doesn’t know how many bullets are left. “Get on the floor now!”

A man crawls off the pile and flattens himself to the floor, hands up. Another follows suit. They’re listening to him. The pile of people shifts enough that he can see what they were attacking. He can see a bit of a gas mask there amidst the gore.

The people flatten themselves to the ground around him at his feet, shaking, crying. They don’t do this for the Jokester. They don’t do this because he makes them laugh and he saves them from criminals. They do this because they are terrified. It makes him _sick_.

The brakes are squealing. The platform is coming into view. There are people out the windows, people in riot gear, with clear shields and guns. There are medics out there. The engineer must have called it in on the radio. Time is running out.

He turns and runs.

Third car, second car, first car. The scarecrow man is biting at the leather strap. He nearly has one wrist free. The can of smoke is still burbling sluggishly under a seat. The Jokester tosses the gun onto an empty seat and squats next to the man, grabbing his shoulders. “Owlman. _Tell me where he is_.”

The man giggles. “Are you on anti-psychos like me? Is that why you’re not screaming with the rest of them?”

“ _Where is Owlman_?” The Jokester raises his voice and the man cringes a little, eyes squinting.

“He came to me. I didn’t go to him.”

“Where?” The train is stopping. The police are moving in. The Jokester shakes the man hard. “Tell me _where_.”

“He’s everywhere. He’s in the Narrows, and he’s at the docks, and he’s even _under your bed_.” The man starts laughing. The Jokester lets go of him, pulling his hood over his head again, putting up his hands. The train stops. The doors open.

The noise is incredible as the police swarm in, shouting, boots hitting the floor. Someone shoves him onto his stomach and he lets them. They wrench his arms behind his back and cuff him. The woman and the boy are screaming again. A policeman cuffs the woman as she struggles. There is more shouting down the train.

“It’s okay,” the officer cuffing the woman is saying. His voice is muffled behind a gas mask. “We’ve got the antidote. Calm down, please.”

“Jonathan Crane,” says the policewoman behind the Jokester. “Thought you might be behind this. You’re under arrest.”

“Me? What about him?” The scarecrow man tugs on his bound wrists. “What about that clown?” He kicks at the Jokester, who doesn’t lift his head.

“Everyone’s going into custody until we sort this out.” She pats the Jokester on the shoulder. “Keep your head down and _don’t move_.”

The policeman takes the woman and her son out of the train car. The policewoman picks up the gun where the Jokester put it and ejects the clip. She steps over the Jokester. He moves his head.

“I said don’t move,” the policewoman snaps at him. The scarecrow man is watching her, his expression hovering in between amusement and confusion.

“This your gun?” she asks him, holding it up.

“Never seen it before in my life,” Crane says.

She squats next to him and takes a hold of his bound hands, pushing the gun in between them. The amusement is slowly slipping from Crane’s face.

“It’s not my gun,” he says. “It’s his gun, him on the floor there, it’s not mine!”

She folds his fingers around the handle of the gun, squeezing his finger on the trigger. The gun clicks, empty.

“What are you—what are you doing?” Crane tugs hard on the leather strap, trying to pull his hands free. “Don’t touch me!”

She takes the gun out of his hands and slams the clip back into the gun. She places it on the floor, then begins to untie his hands.

“I’ll kill you,” Crane says. “I will. I’ll kill you. I know what you’re planning.” He cranes his neck to look at the Jokester. “You’re going to let her do this?”

“Owlman warned you,” she says to him quietly. “He doesn’t give second chances.”

“The docks! Falcone got drug shipments there!” Crane exclaims desperately. He isn’t speaking to the policewoman.

The Jokester sits up, squirming to bring his handcuffed wrists in front of him, accidentally kicking the can of smoke into the middle of the aisle. The leather strap comes free and Crane yanks himself away, grabbing desperately for the gun. The policewoman kicks his gun away, then pulls her own gun from her belt. “Drop the gun!” she hollers, then pulls the trigger three times.

The Jokester gets his arms in front of him. The policewoman half turns, looking towards him, and he sees the surprise on her face and he knows that she recognizes him. She swings the gun up towards him, her finger tightening on the trigger. He rolls out of the way.

The bullet hits the smoking can and the thing ignites with a shockingly loud bang, spewing flames with the sound of a butane torch. Purple smoke belches out, filling the car. The Jokester scrambles away from the can, his eyes watering in the redoubled smoke. It’s so thick that he can barely see the policewoman. All he can see is the light coming from the doorway, where the smoke is pouring out the doors and down into the gap between the platform and the train. He hears running footsteps, more police officers sprinting towards the car. He reaches the door.

There is a foot of space between the train and the platform. Below the train is a sea of purple smoke. He swings his feet between the gap and drops.

It’s only about a four-foot drop. There is shouting over his head but he doesn’t know if they saw him in all the smoke. He squats down, holding his hands in front of him, and moves along the gravel, moving towards the back of the train, towards the entrance of the tunnels. Once he gets out of Grand Central, he can make his way to the streets and start to head to the docks.

  


* * *

  


The Police Commissioner’s office has big windows that are more than enough to afford Batman a view of the entire interior. It’s not a surprise that Jim Gordon is not there, given all the panic that must be raging, but what is unusual is the army of people boxing files and clearing the desk.

The door opens and Gordon comes in, arguing vehemently with someone. He points at someone, looking furious, but the activity in the office does not even slow. Looking frustrated, he lets his hand drop.

Batman stands on the ledge, looking across to the roof where the shattered remains of the bat signal still stand. He triggers his wings, which snap out, and in the office he sees Gordon’s head turn with the movement. He launches himself into the air.

The roofs of the city are different during the day. Greyer, dingier. The glass from the broken bat signal litters the roof. No one has cleaned it up, though it must have been six months since it was broken.

Gordon doesn’t disappoint him. Two minutes pass and then the door is opening and he is there, gun out, standing in the doorway.

“When you said you were going to become the villain, I didn’t think this was what you meant,” he snaps, his gun trained on Batman’s jaw.

Batman spreads his hands to show his lack of weapons. “I didn’t do it. You have to trust me.”

Gordon’s gun doesn’t waver. “Trust you? I have witnesses putting you at three different scenes of aggravated assault and murder. I didn’t know you had a _twin brother_.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Are you really Bruce Wayne?”

Batman takes in a breath and hesitates. It’s a harder question than it should be. Gordon is staring at him, his face hard, waiting for the answer. Batman realizes that Gordon isn’t just angry for what Owlman has done; he’s angry because Batman was Bruce Wayne all along and he never knew.

“Yes,” he says finally.

Gordon nods to himself, seeming to appreciate the answer, but he doesn’t soften. “Are you Owlman?”

“No. That’s not me. That’s…” Alternate universes are too ridiculous to even bring in to this conversation. Telling Gordon that Owlman is his long lost brother is almost as insane. “His name is Thomas Wayne. He’s a cousin.”

Gordon works that around in his mouth for a bit. “And he’s in town for…what? A family reunion?”

“Do you really think I would do the kinds of things he’s done?” Batman bursts out. “What would I get out of killing the mayor? How would that possibly help me?”

Gordon seems to consider this. “And the two men who died at your condo? The woman who had been abducted?”

“My—” Batman pauses, his throat seizing. He glances away, then forces himself to continue. “The Joker came to my condo. Owlman had told him who I was. He killed the doorman. He wanted me to kill the girl to save Alfred but—” He stops again, taking a breath. “The girl must have said something about what happened.”

“Her jaw’s wired shut at the moment,” Gordon admits. “Her therapists say that she might not ever be able to talk about what happened.”

“He put a grenade in her mouth.”

Gordon winces. He seems to remember the gun in his hand and lowers it, putting it back in his holster. “I’m sorry about Alfred. I know he raised you.”

Batman nods once. “Did they make you resign?” he asks roughly, changing the subject.

Gordon sighs. “I’m suspended pending investigation, for collaborating with you.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Garcia was a good man, but Silvestri… This morning Garcia told me that I would have all the support I needed to go after Owlman. This afternoon, Garcia’s dead and Silvestri tells me that he knew I was a bad seed from the beginning, and he’s not going to let me use my influence to destroy the city. We both know that the city is falling to Owlman. Cops are turning already. Taking out the mob left a vacuum and Owlman is filling it. We need to fight it, but Silvestri just took away everything I had.”

“You think Silvestri’s in with Owlman?”

Gordon frowns, thinking. “There were some rumors about him back in the day, when Falcone was in power. I think he was charged with taking bribes but he was acquitted. Everyone was taking bribes then, and I don’t think anyone doubted that he did it.”

“What about Owlman? What has he been doing?”

“What _hasn’t_ he been doing? He controls most of the Narrows already. If it was Falcone’s or Maroni’s, it’s his now. We suspect that he was the one behind the breakout at Arkham Asylum. I think he let them go to distract the police long enough for him to consolidate some of his power. Some of my men intercepted a crate of assault rifles two days ago, but it’s gone missing from evidence.”

“You have no idea where he might be located?”

“No. Honestly…” Gordon shrugs, looking mildly embarrassed. “We heard he was you, so that’s where we’ve been looking.”

“That’s probably exactly what he intended.” Batman holds out a piece of paper to him. “If you find anything out, let me know. Here’s my cell phone number. It’s off, if you try to trace it. Leave a message.”

“Thanks.” Gordon takes the paper and glances at the number. “I’ll do that.”

When he looks up again, Batman is gone.


	6. Chapter 6

The water in the harbor heaves and sags, thick with ice. Candy-colored shipping containers are stacked as tall as buildings, leaving narrow walkways in between.

There is a fenced-in area marked _Wayne Enterprises — Private Property — Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted_. The Jokester hesitates at the gate, peering in. The snow lays virgin over the yard, untouched by feet or tires.

The Jokester’s Gotham has no Falcone. There is no room for the mob because the Crime Society takes care of business. He knew where to find the docks but now that he’s here, he has no idea where to go next.

Business at the docks at this time of winter is sluggish. A quarter mile down, a freighter is unloading shipping containers, the crane slowly swinging a box out and down onto the back of a flatbed truck. The block letters on the side of the crate read KASEL.

He trudges along the fence around Wayne Enterprises property, leaving long scars in the snow. His trouser legs are soaked through to the knees. There is blood on his sweatshirt. When he got out of Grand Central he used handfuls of snow to clean his face and hands of the blood but he can still feel it there. _Out, damned spot,_ right? Heh.

There are rims of red under his fingernails and there is a strange quivering hollow inside his ribcage, like he breathed out and forgot to breathe in again.

The fence ends and he reaches a street. The plows have left dirty snow slopped into piles but most of the snow is untouched. The next lot is untouched, as is the next one. The freighter is getting closer.

The next shipyard has footprints and tire tracks going from the gate to the stacks of containers. It doesn’t seem like anyone is around at the moment. The sky is still gray, threatening more snow.

His wrists are still cuffed. He reaches to the top of the chain link fence, hooks the chain of his cuffs over a post, and pulls himself up. Straddling the fence, he looks down the street. No one in sight. He drops over the other side.

The shipping containers echo hollowly when he knocks on one. There are footprints in between the containers and the scrape marks of containers being shifted. The containers must have come in recently.

He reaches the end of a row and stops. From here he has an unobstructed view of the unloading freighter, which means they can see him just as easily. He retreats back into the shadows and takes another branch of the path between the containers.

In the next row, there is something red in the snow, along with the drag marks. They lead up to a container at the end. He follows the tracks and stops in front of the container. He puts his ear against the door.

No sound.

Pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands, he grabs the handle and cranks the door open. It screeches and he stops, listening. Perhaps the freighter is too far away to hear the noise. He puts his face to the gap and looks in.

The shaft of light from the opening falls over a man’s hand, fingers relaxed. There is no sound of breathing. The Jokester squeezes through the opening and squats down next to the hand. He touches it. Cold.

There is a pack of matches in his pocket. He sniffs the air experimentally and doesn’t smell anything flammable. He rips out a match and scrapes it along the back of the pack.

The flame sears to life, picked out in the glassy eyes of four men—one sprawled at the Jokester’s feet, two piled against the back wall, and one just to the right of the door. Throats slashed, all of them. They all wear uniforms. The nearest one has a plastic badge clipped to his front pocket. The Jokester reaches out and touches it. Kasel Medical Supplies.

In a puddle of congealed blood on the floor is a familiar metal shape, two wicked metal wings and punched out owl eyes. Jackie reaches down and touches it. His heart thumps painfully into a higher gear and his palms go wet. His thumb runs over the flat surface and he can taste it in his mouth, the greasy metal polish, the hot itchy slice of pain.

The match burns down to his fingers and he drops it. It goes out when it hits the floor. He picks up the blade and then stands up, moving back to the door.

The last flatbed truck with the Kasel shipping containers is just pulling onto the street. The truck cab is green with white lettering on the door that says _Transport Sicilia Ltd._ The freighter bobs on the water, abandoned.

  


* * *

  


There is a key in the lock and the door to Dent’s apartment opens. Jackie steps in, looking wary. When he sees Batman, the wariness turns to dark amusement.

“Did you wait up for little old me?” He kicks the door shut. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt that must have been Harvey’s. It is splattered with dark stains.

Batman moves across the foyer, grabbing the front of the sweatshirt. The stains are damp. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not _my_ blood.” Jackie eases away from Batman, his back hitting the closed door. The sweatshirt stretches between them until Batman lets go of it.

“That’s not what I was worried about.”

“I ran into suh-someone you probably know. _Knew_.” Jackie smirks but his eyes keep drifting to the side, away from Batman’s face. “I mean, I _assume_ you knew him. All of us costumed freaks stick together, right?”

“What happened?” Batman says again. He snaps his fingers in front of Jackie’s eyes to get his attention, then draws it back to his face. Jackie briefly meets his eyes, blinking.

“It was something that started with a C. Uh, Crane? Wore a sack on his head.”

“That was you on the monorail. They said the Joker was involved with it.”

“Joke _ster_. And not involved in the sense of _doing it_ , but involved in the sense of trying to keep everyone from _murdering themselves_.” Jackie hesitates, gaze gone to the left again. He licks his lips. “Not terribly successful.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You think I left here, ran down to the monorail to kill a few people, and then _came back to see you_?” The Jokester starts to laugh. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

Batman’s arm shoots out and he grabs Jackie’s collar, shoving him back against the door. Jackie’s hands snap up and grab his. Something metal glitters on his wrists—handcuffs.

“I’m not crazy,” snarls Batman. Jackie meets his eyes again. Dark eyes, intense. There is something flickering behind Jackie’s eyes, something raw and angry, but he’s grinning, showing teeth. It would be so easy to hit him, to try to beat the smirk from his face, but he knows that wouldn’t be right. He can’t punish Jackie for the Joker’s crimes, no matter how much they look alike.

“Go ahead,” Jackie says breathlessly, on the verge of laughter. “Hit me. I know you want to. Hit me.”

“Why do you want me to?” Batman grinds out.

“You can’t listen to a word that I say because you just can’t stop thinking about what he did to you. So do it. Punish me. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Jackie does laugh now. His hands tighten on Batman’s wrist, fingernails digging into the gauntlet. “I know when you’re lying. You want it so bad you can’t think about anything else. Hit me.”

“You’re handcuffed.”

“So take them off!” Jackie’s voice rises. “I’ll hit you back! Take off your mask— _I’m_ not wearing one! Let’s make this even. Show me those nice Thomas Wayne cheekbones. I’ll break them.” He’s practically vibrating with energy in Batman’s grip. There is anger in his eyes, Batman understands, but there is desperation too. Jackie wants this as much as he does, maybe more.

 _Bruce, not Thomas_ , thinks Batman, but he doesn’t say it. He lets go of Jackie’s neck, then reaches up and pulls off his mask, tossing it aside. Jackie’s eyes flicker over his face, drinking it in, memorizing the details. Batman reaches to his belt and takes the key ring with the handcuff keys. Most handcuffs use the same keys. If only he’d had these within reach when Alfred— He stops that thought, then reconsiders. The Joker killed Alfred, and now he’s standing right there in front of him. He unlocks the cuffs.

Jackie hits first, shoving Batman backward and slinging a clenched fist for the cheekbone, as he promised. Batman brings up an arm and blocks it, grabbing Jackie’s wrist and twisting, driving him to his knees. Jackie drills an elbow into the back of Batman’s knee and Batman crashes to the ground.

Jackie swings a leg over Batman’s chest, straddling him, and his fist meets Batman’s face. Batman heaves Jackie off him, slamming him into the coffee table, which cracks. He stiffens his fingers and jabs them into Jackie’s solar plexus, doubling him over. Jackie ducks his head and rears forward, smashing his skull into Bruce’s jaw.

It’s fast and vicious, the smack of fist on flesh or rubber, the wheeze of their breath, the grunt of a connected hit. Bruce’s fist finds Jackie’s nose and blood bursts. Jackie starts laughing. He straddles Bruce again, spitting blood into his face. Bruce jerks up his knee and Jackie’s thighs clamp down on it, stopping him before he can do any damage. Bruce rolls them over, forcing his knee up further. Jackie gasps out a curse and his hands grab Bruce’s face, fingernails digging into the sides of his jaw, thumbs hovering over Bruce’s eyes. Bruce closes his eyes and grabs Jackie’s wrists. Jackie’s thumbs press gently against his eyelids.

They stop, breath shuddering.

“Should we call that a tie?” Bruce asks hoarsely. Jackie’s thumbs lift from his eyelids and slide briefly across his eyebrows before Jackie lets go of his face entirely. Bruce opens his eyes, letting go of Jackie’s wrists.

“You think we’re done?” Jackie laughs, and punches him in the jaw. Bruce’s head snaps back, his lips mashed against his teeth. He growls and pounds his fist into Jackie’s stomach. Jackie lets out a noise, his already cracked ribs grinding. The noise is animal and hurt and there’s something about it that makes Bruce’s mouth flood with saliva in an entirely predatory way.

It’s been six months since the Joker went on his rampage but the one thing that stands out most vividly in his brain is the interrogation room, the Joker limp as a rag doll, laughing as Bruce hit him again and again. _You have_ nothing. _Nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do with all your strength_ …. But oh, if there had been, he would have done it.

And he would have enjoyed it.

Jackie whacks him across the face. “Pay attention,” he snaps. Batman catches his hand before he can hit again and holds it tightly. Meeting Jackie’s eyes, he reaches down and pulls up the sweatshirt, revealing the suit. He yanks open the vest, then lifts the edge of the blue shirt underneath.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jackie says, twisting. “Careful with the suit, it was _expensive_.”

His ribs stand out like knuckles, purpled with bruises. His chest rises and falls fast with his breathing. Batman cups his palm over the broken ribs. Press down and the rib will break further, perhaps splinter in two. Press harder and it will slice through meat, puncture the lung. He does not press down.

He can feel the heat of Jackie’s blood under the swollen flesh, the quick thump-thump of his heart. Jackie is watching him, entirely focused on him, waiting for the pain of it. His eyes are the eyes of someone Bruce does not know. For the first time, Bruce realizes consciously that he has no shared experiences with this man.

“What are you waiting for?” Jackie whispers.

Sociopaths can be charming things, manipulating the people around them. Psychopaths can be alluring, free of inhibitions and morals, reveling in insanity. The man with Jackie’s face, the man whose real name Bruce does not know, is seductive in ways that are not necessarily sexual but are powerful nonetheless. He has cultivated a sick, visceral obsession in Bruce.

“I’m done fighting you,” Bruce says. He lets go of Jackie’s hand.

If you were to take away all of the Joker’s crimes, all of the criminal psychopathy, all of the shared history between them, you would be left with Jackie.

“Done?” Jackie props himself up on his elbows and watches him stand.

“You’re not him.” Bruce hesitates, looking down at him. “And neither am I.”

Jackie pushes off the floor and rises faster than Bruce would have expected. His hands are loose and open at his sides but he’s still buzzing with energy, his eyes intense. “You don’t know who I am. For all you know, I’m as much of a psychopath as he is.”

“You could be,” Bruce agrees, neutral.

“What makes you think I’m not? You could have hurt me right there, and you didn’t.” Jackie makes a sharp gesture at the floor. He is shorter than Bruce but has a crackling presence that seems to take up more space, making Bruce feel as if he’s uncomfortably close when he’s a few feet away.

“Are you relieved that I didn’t, or are you disappointed?”

Bruce watches Jackie’s expression go carefully blank. Jackie says nothing.

“You want to know why I think you’re not him? You could have put out my eyes there, and you didn’t. You could have left for good when you went out today, but you came back. You have a blade in your pocket, but in our whole fight you never used it.”

Jackie’s hand goes to the pouch of his sweatshirt. He doesn’t take the blade out.

Bruce lets out a breath and turns away. “You’re covered in blood. Go take a shower. I’ll have some food ready when you get out.”

  


* * *

  


There is canned soup boiling on the stove when Jackie comes out of the bedroom. He has appropriated some more of Harvey’s clothes, though Bruce can’t quite imagine Harvey ever wearing the faded pink and blue striped pants and teal button-down shirt, and certainly not together. Jackie has apparently found the belt that Bruce confiscated earlier, too, because it’s back around his waist, bright green and silver to clash with the pink, blue and teal.

Jackie pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and slaps something down onto the counter. It’s the blade that Bruce noticed earlier, but now that it’s in plain view, Bruce understands what it is. Jackie rests his elbows on the counter.

“He was down at the docks,” he says.

Bruce glances up from the blade, his hand hovering over it. “You saw him?”

“He left his calling card.” Jackie looks down at the blade. “And four bodies.”

The blade is clean, its surface unmarred by fingerprints or blood. Bruce remembers machining his own batarangs in the caves under Wayne Manor, honing the metal down to a sharp finish.

“Do you know why he was at the docks?”

“The bodies were delivery men for Kasel Medical Supply. I saw them unloading a freighter. I don’t know where they were taking it—or why—but the trucks they used were Transport Sicilia.”

“Falcone.” Bruce turns back to the stove and pulls the pot of soup off the heat. “That was one of the business fronts he used for the mob. Gordon said he’s taking over all of Falcone’s territory.”

Jackie drums his fingers on the table. “Gordon…?”

“Commissioner Gordon.” Bruce ladles the soup into two bowls and puts them both on the island. “I take it he’s not the Commissioner where you’re from.”

“No….” Jackie draws out the word and trails off. He takes the spoon that Bruce offers him. “Uh, thanks.”

“How’d you know to check the docks?” Bruce pulls out the stool on the other side of the island and sits.

Jackie studies his reflection in the spoon. “Crane, on the monorail. He told me.”

“Why? Did he think you were the Joker?”

“He just wanted to spite them. He knew they were going to kill him. The police, I mean. The policewoman who shot him said ‘Owlman warned you.’”

Bruce stills. “He’s infiltrated the police already?”

“He has to have. Owlman didn’t have enough time to send in an impersonator to take Crane out. There was only about seven minutes between the time Crane got on the train and the time we stopped at Grand Central.”

Bruce falls silent. If this is true, the corruption is further along than Gordon thought. It is frustrating that all of the work that everyone has done to restore integrity to Gotham can come undone so quickly.

“What else did, uh, _Gordon_ say?” Jackie slurps his soup.

“They don’t know anything about him. They thought he was me.”

Jackie lets out a snort of laughter. “That’s some fine police work, there.”

“What did you expect them to think, that he was my evil twin? They’d have to be crazy to consider it.”

“Hn.” Jackie rests his chin on one hand. “Evil twin.”

Bruce looks at him. “You don’t think so?”

“I don’t believe in evil.”

The idea seems to absurd that Bruce laughs. “You don’t think what Owlman does is evil?”

Jackie shrugs. “What he _does_ is evil, yeah. What he _is_ ….” His eyes flicker away. “The idea of evil is that it’s permanent. You’re born evil, you die evil. I don’t think he’ll be switching sides any time soon but if things had been different, he could have.” Jackie gestures with the spoon at Bruce. “Case in point. You both started out the same. You came to a fork in the road and—” he smirks, “—you took it.”

“But we’re not exactly the same person. I don’t even have an older brother here. We were different from the beginning. You think you and the Joker are the same person who took different paths? I didn’t have anything to do with creating the Joker. I didn’t give him his scars. He didn’t used to be a famous comedian.”

“As far as you know.” Jackie seems unperturbed by this line of reasoning. “Maybe we branched out earlier.”

Bruce pushes back his chair and brings his empty bowl to the sink. “You really think you could be evil?”

“No.” Jackie pushes back his own chair. “I just think things are more flexible than good and evil.” He puts out his hands, weighs the two options.

Bruce feels himself tense, remembering the Joker making the same motion. _Do you think Alfred will blame you for letting him drop_? He shakes his head and Jackie looks at him quizzically.

“Gordon would never believe me if I told him what was going on,” Bruce says, abruptly changing the subject. “He might be able to work with the information if he had it, but he would have to believe it first…”

“You believe it.” Jackie lets it rest half a beat and then adds, “And _you’re_ sane.”

Bruce takes in a breath and thinks for a second. It’s not the way he wanted to go about doing it, but if it works…

“I’m going to go out again tonight,” he says, coming to a decision. “Owlman’s busy and I can’t waste any time. You—”

“I’m not waiting here,” Jackie interrupts. “I think we went over that before.”

“You’re not waiting here,” Bruce agrees. “You’re coming with me. I think I have to introduce you to Commissioner Gordon.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s been a long day and it’s only getting longer.

When Gordon gets home, Barbara is waiting for him, sitting on the couch with the television on. She looks up, her eyes wet, when he comes in.

“Oh, _Jim_ ,” she says, rising. He crosses the room and hugs her.

“Barbara, I’m sorry.” He buries his face in her neck, smelling her shampoo.

“Are there going to be criminal charges?” Her voice is muffled against his shirt.

“I don’t know yet.” He pulls back, catching her gaze. “I don’t think so. Don’t worry about that.”

She nods but looks away. “Maybe you should tell them the truth about what happened.”

Gordon sighs. “I can’t. Believe me, I know that it’s hard to watch Batman be turned into a criminal, but it had to be done.”

“Batman can take care of himself. You said it yourself. But if you hadn’t made Batman out to be a criminal, you never would have gotten in trouble for working with him.” Barbara digs in her pockets for a tissue and blows her nose. “He didn’t kill the mayor, did he?”

“No.” Gordon shakes his head. “I think it’s someone else. I don’t know anything about them yet.”

“Dad?” James is hovering in the doorway, looking uncertain at the tension between Gordon and Barbara.

Gordon steps back from Barbara and opens his arms. “Hey there, kiddo. Come here.”

James comes into the room and gives him a hug. Barbie comes in after him, bouncing cheerfully and dragging her doll.

“How was your day?” Gordon asks James, ruffling his hair. James scowls and rakes his hair back into place.

“Good,” he says.

Gordon scoops up Barbie onto his hip. “How about yours? Do anything fun?”

Barbie shakes her head. “No,” she says solemnly.

“Yes you did,” Barbara reminds her, wiping away the last of her tears. “Tell Daddy about the game you played in kindergarten.”

Gordon’s cell phone trills in his pocket as Barbie launches into a rambling story about duck, duck, goose. He takes the phone out of his pocket and glances at it. It’s a text message from B.W. He blinks at the name for a second, then realizes that he programmed the number into his phone earlier that day, and B.W. stands for Bruce Wayne.

The text simply reads: _Outside._

Gordon glances out the window at the deepening darkness of late afternoon. He tucks the phone back into his pocket.

“It’s just work,” he says. At Barbara’s frown, he adds, “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to make a call.” He looks at Barbie. “Could you hold that story for when I get back?”

Barbara takes Barbie from his arms. “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says.

He nods absently and heads into the kitchen. He opens the back door and steps outside, letting it shut behind himself.

The air of the alley is bitingly cold and smells like snow. The little snow that has filtered down between the buildings crunches under Gordon’s feet.

“Twice in one day?” he says to the shadows. “That’s new.”

“It’s a special occasion,” comes Batman’s voice. Even now that he knows who Batman really is, he can’t find any trace of Bruce Wayne in the voice. “I have someone who has information on Owlman and might be able to help.”

Gordon scans the shadows. Batman shifts and drops from his usual perch with far less sound than a grown man should make. Someone else moves down the steps and stops a few feet away from Gordon.

“What kind of information?” Gordon asks.

“What do you need to know?” asks the other man. The voice is familiar but Gordon can’t place it.

“Well, his real name for one. The only Thomas Wayne we can find was your father,” Gordon says, directing the last towards Batman’s shadow. “No cousins.”

The unknown man snorts. “Cousin?” he says, directing it at Batman. That voice is _so familiar._ Gordon stares at him uneasily, trying to make out a face in the shadows.

“So who are you then?” Gordon asks the man.

“What we have to tell you is going to sound crazy,” Batman says to Gordon, sounding slightly strained. “But you’re going to have to try to believe it.”

“Crazier than you being Bruce Wayne?”

“Much.”

Gordon smiles wryly. “I can try.”

“This is Jackie. He’s a friend.” Batman gestures to the man. The man steps into the wedge of light thrown from the kitchen window. He’s wearing a black overcoat, with a red scarf hiding his face up to his nose. In the light, his hair proves to be dyed purple, growing out dark blond at the roots. He holds out a gloved hand for Gordon to shake.

“Do I know you?” Gordon says uncertainly, squinting at him.

“Never met you before,” says Jackie, his eyes creased with amusement at some joke that is apparently over Gordon’s head. His handshake is firm.

Gordon’s gaze shifts to Batman, who still stands in the shadows, his arms crossed. “So where’s the part that’s hard to believe?”

“Owlman is not my cousin. He’s my brother.”

Gordon frowns. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t have a brother.”

“Not in this reality,” Jackie says, sounding cheerful.

Gordon raises one eyebrow, feeling his heart sink. “Reality?”

“Did they take your gun when you were suspended?” Batman asks quietly.

The non-sequiturs are becoming more and more annoying. “Of course,” Gordon snaps. “Are you going to explain any of this?”

“Show him,” Batman says to Jackie. Jackie pulls down his scarf.

The scars are clear in the light from the window. Gordon jerks back, his hand automatically going to the gun that he knows isn’t there. Batman steps halfway in between them, holding up a hand.

“I told you, he’s a friend. He’s not the Joker.”

Now that he’s seen the scars, he can match the rest of the face and the voice to the Joker. “Like hell he’s not.”

“He’s not the Joker, and I’m not Owlman.”

Gordon looks at Jackie, who appears immensely amused at his reaction. “How dumb do you think I am?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but you said you would try.”

Gordon sends Batman a black look. “I did. Do you have some way to prove all this?”

“We couldn’t exactly get everyone here to compare birthmarks,” says Jackie.

“And you’re from some sort of…alternate reality?” The words are sour in Gordon’s mouth. “How did you get here?”

“The Joker had some sort of…ring.” Jackie shrugs, looking embarrassed. “A…magic… ring.”

“Magic.” Gordon shifts his attention to Batman. There was a time when Gordon thought he believed in Batman, when he thought he _knew_ him. To suddenly discover that Batman was that insipid playboy Bruce Wayne was like a physical blow, and to hear him spouting this craziness was even worse. “Are you sure he didn’t…you know…drug you?”

“I drugged him and then I brought him here to discuss _alternate dimensions_ with you,” Jackie agrees.

“You’ve met the Joker,” Batman says seriously to Gordon. “He looks and sounds just like him but you have to see the differences.”

“I don’t know what I see,” Gordon says, suddenly tired. “And I don’t honestly know what I believe anymore.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You said you had information on Owlman.”

“He _is_ Thomas Wayne,” Jackie says. “He just about runs Gotham—the _other_ Gotham, I mean. He started off on his own with some small time protection rackets but he didn’t really care about the money. He would ask for amounts that no one could pay because he enjoyed it when they missed a payment and then he could make an _example_ out of them. He got such a reputation that the Crime Society asked him to join them, and in a couple years he was running them.”

“The Crime Society?”

Jackie shrugs. “An organized crime ring.”

Gordon stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Not very subtle, are they?”

“They don’t _need_ to be. They control the police, the politicians, everything. It’s, ah, _crazy_ to stand against them.”

Gordon glances at Batman, who is watching him with an unreadable expression. Gordon suddenly thinks of Bruce Wayne underneath the bat suit, black makeup smeared around his eye sockets under the mask, his dark hair flattened under the hood. This is the man who has been saving Gotham.

“So how do you know he’s Thomas Wayne?”

Jackie’s gaze slides away. “I’ve seen him without the mask.”

“Okay. Okay. Say I believe this.” Gordon sends Jackie a sharp look. “ _Which I don’t._ But say that I do. This Owlman is a vicious murderer who wants to run Gotham like he runs…the _other_ one. Where is he hiding? Who is he working with?”

“He likes tall buildings, penthouses, expensive hotels, but he doesn’t have a problem recruiting lower class criminals to work for him. He probably lives in a nice hotel but has people working out of a place in the slums where most of the action is.”

Gordon snorts. “So he’s squeamish? Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty?”

“No.” Jackie’s voice is suddenly cold. Both Batman and Gordon look at him, startled. His expression is very serious. “He’s not squeamish.”

Gordon holds up a hand in placation. “Uh, all right. I can talk to some people who are still on the case and let them know where to start looking for him. It might help.”

“Be careful. The cop who shot Crane on the monorail today was working for Owlman, and she’s probably not the only one,” says Batman.

Gordon nods grimly. “She’s not. Silvestri appointed the new Police Commissioner this afternoon. Gregory Davis. He was barely in power three hours and he had already suspended investigations into most of the organized crime in Gotham. The rumors are going around that he’s just another Commissioner Loeb. It’s going back to the way it was when Falcone was in charge.”

“Crane said that Owlman was using Falcone’s old territory at the docks, too,” Jackie says. “I saw four Kasel employees killed and left in a shipping container there.”

“The Kasel shipment was reported stolen this afternoon,” Gordon says. “It was medicine for the city hospitals. They get shipments monthly.”

“Could Owlman be selling it on the black market?”

“Probably. I don’t know where they could be hiding those shipping containers. We checked just about all of the warehouses in the area. The hospitals are scrambling to buy more. They really needed the stuff. They might be able to get a replacement shipment in two days, but it’ll be hard on them.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” Batman says. “I need to take out Owlman himself. I’m wasting my time if I’m just running around putting out fires.”

“You’re one man, and Owlman has an army. Some of these fires need to be put out.” Gordon rubs the back of his neck. “I know there are some good cops left, and I know they want to stop Owlman. Ramirez is trustworthy. I know there were some problems with her in the past but I would trust her with my life, and I know she’s one of the few who would be willing to work with you. I’ll get you a list of names of others and maybe they can help you out.”

“Thanks,” Batman says shortly, already fading back into the shadows. “Let me know if anything happens.”

“I will.” Gordon doesn’t look away as Batman turns and he and Jackie walk down the alley, their footsteps scraping on the pavement. Just men after all.

  


* * *

  


“If we’re going to go take on Owlman, I need my face,” says Jackie at the mouth of the alley, where Harvey Dent’s car is parked. The street at this time of night is crowded with people coming home from work. Jackie pulls up his scarf again, covering his scars.

“Your face?” Batman opens the car door and gets in. Jackie slides in the passenger’s side, reaching for the radio dial.

“My face,” Jackie repeats. “I don’t think Dent had the kind of makeup I’m looking for. But I don’t have any money.”

“You can’t put that back on. Everyone will mistake you for a terrorist again. And I’m not buying it for you.” Batman starts the car and pulls out of the alley, down onto the street.

“Guess what?” Jackie flicks through the radio stations without stopping on any of them. He tilts up his face to grin at Batman, although all Batman can see are his crinkling eyes. “You could have worn a hat and a scarf and no one would have recognized you at all, but you went as Batman instead.”

Batman says nothing, gunning the engine. Jackie smiles as if that was the response he was expecting.

“You’d rather go as yourself than as that billionaire that no one respects. Believe me, I understand that. I’d rather go as the Jokester than as Jackie.”

Batman turns at the light and takes them on the street that will bring them to the docks. His hands are tight on the steering wheel. “You think Batman is the real me?”

Jackie’s hand pauses on the radio dial. Staticky Spanish music comes out, an energetic bachata. “You don’t?”

Batman doesn’t answer. On the next block is a party supply store. Batman pulls into the small lot and parks. He takes a twenty from his wallet and hands it to Jackie.

“Be quick.”

“Thanks.” Jackie takes the cash and gets out of the car. Batman watches him cross the lot, his hands shoved in the pockets of Harvey Dent’s slightly oversized coat, his shoulders hunched, the scarf wrapped tight. He disappears into the store.

The bachata ends and a pop song comes on. Batman reaches out to turn it off, then stops. He lets his hand drop. He doesn’t want to sit alone in silence.

After a minute, Jackie comes back out of the shop, a shopping bag swinging from his wrist. He gets back into the car.

“The woman over there is staring at you,” he says, ripping open a package of cheap white makeup.

“Where?” Batman looks around.

“Other side of the lot. She’s sitting in her car.” Jackie gestures. Across the lot, there’s a woman sitting in the front seat of a car with a cell phone to her ear, staring straight at them. When she sees them looking, she looks nervous and drops her gaze.

Batman swears and pulls out of the parking spot. “Hope she didn’t see the license plates.”

Jackie pulls down the sun visor mirror and starts smearing the makeup over his face with enthusiasm, wiping it on with swipes of the tiny sponge. Batman sneaks a glance at him. The makeup smells thick and familiar. It smells like the interrogation room, the Joker laughing in his grip; it smells like the top of the skyscraper, wrestling on the floor for control. It smells uncomfortably like obsession.

“Why dress as a clown?” he asks finally, guiding the car out of the lot.

Jackie shrugs, digging a thumb into the black paint and smearing it around his eyes. “Because he wanted to make a fool of me.”

“And you decided to run with it?”

“He cut my face open to humiliate me. He wanted make me look like a freak so I would know what it was like when someone laughed at me.” He wipes red across his mouth, reaching from one end of the scars to the other, and gives Batman a big grin. “I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

The visceral reaction of seeing him like this doesn’t fade even though he knows it’s Jackie under that face. Jackie, the cheerful, twisted, unknowable man who is fighting on his side. The psychopath clown is just his mask.

If you were to take away all of the Batman’s good deeds, all of the masks and secrecy and double life, you would be left with another mask.

Batman reaches out and turns off the radio. “You don’t bother with a secret identity, do you?”

“I am the Jokester all the time. Even if I wanted to be someone else, I couldn’t.” Jackie touches his scars. “Anyway I don’t have anyone to protect.”

“No family?”

“They could take care of themselves.” Jackie’s gaze slides away and his manic energy seems to dampen. He shoves the makeup cases back into the plastic bag and secretes the bag into one of the pockets of Harvey’s coat. “Where to now?”

“The docks. He has to be hiding the shipping containers somewhere. We’ll have to start looking.”

The sun is long set and the docks are quiet, the streetlamps holding up the darkness like tent poles. Batman slows the car and they roll down the street, mountains of shipping containers rising on the right.

“It looks like the freighter is still there,” the Jokester says, staring out the window. The freighter rises and falls on the water, dark. The ramp that connects it to the docks is still in place and there are still a few shipping containers stacked on the deck but otherwise it seems abandoned. The lot is wrapped with yellow police tape. The snow is churned into brown slush from the police cars and ambulances that must have been there.

“They left in big trucks. Maybe they’re hiding the shipping containers, but do you think they’re hiding the trucks too?”

Batman stops the car just outside of the lot. Together they peer through the fence to the stacked containers. “You said Transport Sicilia, right? Those were Falcone’s trucks. He has a warehouse about a mile down.”

They start forward again. Jackie drums his fingers on his knee and keeps shifting forward to look up out the windshield as if he expects something to drop out of the sky. Batman remembers the defensive way he snapped at Gordon when Gordon laughed at Owlman.

“There they are,” Jackie says excitedly, pointing. The hulking shapes of five Transport Sicilia trucks are sitting outside of Falcone’s lot. Three of them are still covered in snow but two are freshly cleared off.

“Gordon said they searched the warehouses. The containers can’t be in there. They must have delivered it somewhere and dropped the trucks back here.” Batman keeps going past the warehouse another block, then pulls around the corner and parks.

“They’re probably staying away until the police stop looking, but there might be clues in the warehouse.” The Jokester opens his door and gets out of the car, shutting it quietly. He looks up again, almost a nervous twitch.

Batman locks the car and looks up at the nearest roof. The building on this block is tall enough that if he can get to the roof, he can glide down to the roof of Falcone’s place. If there is anyone in there, they won’t be expecting intruders from the roof. Batman frowns. Then again, Owlman can fly as well. He’s going to have to stop thinking that his own flight gives him an advantage.

“Here. We’re going up.” Batman takes out his grappling gun and holds out a hand to the Jokester. “Just like before.”

The Jokester looks uneasy. “Uh, don’t drop me.” He steps forward and reaches up, wrapping his arms around Batman’s neck. Batman hooks his arm around the Jokester’s waist, pulling him tight against him. The Jokester’s body is a line of heat against his.

“It’s strange doing this with a man,” Batman says, and as Jackie starts to laugh, he shoots the grappling gun. They are yanked up into the air.

If you were to take away all of his hatred for the Joker, all of his anger and grief, you would be left with— Batman bites off the end of that thought.

They reach the roof, four floors up. The roof of Falcone’s building is only three stories high, but it’s across a wide street. It’ll be tight reaching the roof and not hitting the wall, especially with their combined weight.

“You sure we can make it?” The Jokester stares across the street. “Because I can take the fire escape and meet you over there.”

Batman steps to the edge of the roof, looking down. The pavement looks hard and cold below. “You can hold onto my back,” he says. “We’ll make it.” Batman activates his wings, which snap out.

“Bats and owls,” the Jokester mutters. “Both with an unhealthy obsession with heights.” He steps behind Batman and wraps his arms around his neck again.

They step out and catch the air. Bruce had never known what a massive, muscled thing the air was until he first stepped off a building. It has its own shifting, invisible currents, parts that rise and fall, humps that curve over and down and can send a glider soaring into the sky or plummeting to the ground. His wings catch it and slide over it like a surfer on a wave. The brick wall of the warehouse rears in front of them and the Jokester’s arms tighten around his neck but then the updraft of the building catches them and hoists them over the ledge and onto the roof. Batman stumbles and falls to his knees and the Jokester lets go.

“You actually do that for _fun_?” gasps the Jokester, getting unsteadily to his feet. He holds out a hand to Batman.

“You get used to it,” Batman replies, letting the Jokester pull him to his feet.

The roof access door is locked but it doesn’t stand up well to the lock picks in Batman’s belt. They step through into the stairwell and listen. The warehouse is echoingly silent.

They move quietly down the stairs. The door on the third floor is unlocked. They step through onto the catwalks that surround the large space.

The warehouse has been out of use for a while. When Falcone went insane, business dropped off, and when Maroni was killed, that was the end of it. A forklift is abandoned in the corner. There is trash heaped in the corners, the usual debris left behind when people leave for good, but there are no missing shipping containers.

There doesn’t seem to be any people around either. The Jokester takes the stairs down and goes out onto the floor, kicking his way through yellowed newspapers and soda cans. None of the debris looks new. The floor is mottled with the passage of forklifts and feet, splattered with paint and oil stains. The Jokester leans down and picks up a newspaper, glancing at it.

“Who’s this Obama person?” he asks.

Batman leans on the catwalk railing, looking down. The back of the newspaper has a line of blue paint on it as if it was underneath something that was spray-painted. A number of the other newspapers and bits of cardboard also have blue paint on them, scattered around the area.

“Is that spray-paint?” he calls down, pointing. He goes for the staircase. The Jokester looks down, then drops to a squat. He pulls two bits of cardboard next to each other, matching up the blue lines. Batman arrives on the floor and helps, finding a bit of cardboard where the paint line makes a right-angled turn. The newspaper and cardboard has been scattered around the area but it’s simple enough to match it up again, forming a rectangle of blue paint twenty feet long and eight feet wide.

“They painted them blue,” Batman says. The outline of the whole shipping container becomes clear. The Jokester straightens up and steps back.

“They could be in plain sight,” he says, looking up at Batman. “Just about anywhere.”

“We know what they look like,” Batman replies. “The trucks are back here, so they can’t have driven them somewhere else to sell them unless it was nearby. If he painted them, he must want to keep them around somewhere that they would be recognized.” He starts for the front door of the warehouse, keeping an eye out for any of Owlman’s men. The warehouse seems to be pretty well abandoned, which isn’t surprising considering the police presence earlier.

The Jokester kicks through the papers, scattering them again, then follows. “And it must be on a lot where no one would notice a couple extra shipping containers, or one on his territory. Did Falcone have more warehouses?”

“A few. We’ll check them first.” Batman opens the front door a crack.

A police car rolls by down the street. He freezes. The Jokester waits at his shoulder, tense. The car passes, reaches the end of the next block and turns.

“Harvey’s car,” Batman hisses.

Red and blue lights suddenly paint the surrounding buildings. The police car siren whoops once.

“Guess that woman got our plates after all,” the Jokester says, sounding faintly amused.

Batman glances at him. “Guess we’re flying out of here.” He smirks when the Jokester’s amusement fades.

He leads the way back upstairs to the roof, relocking the roof access door behind them. Most of the buildings around here have low roofs, only two or three stories tall. It will be hard to glide from rooftop to rooftop here.

“Or we could walk,” the Jokester suggests. “Not as fast but it’s, you know, healthier.”

“We just need to make it to the Wayne Enterprises lot,” Batman says. “I left a motorcycle there.” He steps to the edge of the roof, looking down. The next building is two stories, but it’s next to a four-story tall building that should give them enough of a boost to reach the next block. “Ready?”

The air takes them again, and they make it to the next building, then the next. A police car goes by underneath them, its lights off. If Batman had chosen any other car, it wouldn’t have caused as much trouble, but every cop in the city knows the name of Harvey Dent. They know he’s dead, and they’ll check his apartment next.

The Wayne Enterprises lot comes up on their left. The shipping containers, edged in yellow from the streetlights, are stacked tall. The crane stretches up into darkness. The snow in the lot is sliced with footprints and tire tracks, and the gate to the lot has a shiny new lock on it. They stop on the roof of the building across the street, staring down.

“It wasn’t like that this morning,” says the Jokester. “There weren’t any footprints at all then.”

Wayne Enterprises doesn’t actually use this property. Bruce made sure of that when he picked the spot for his bunker. Could the police have decided to raid all of his property in the hopes of finding him?

The blue shipping containers are stacked neatly with the rest of the containers, wedged carefully in between the old containers. If this lot were used regularly, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed the differences, but he hasn’t moved any of the shipping containers on this lot since he had the bunker built. The blue containers have WAYNE ENTERPRISES stenciled on the sides.

“Found them,” he says.

His eyes fall on the red shipping container that is the door to his bunker. The padlock has been cut off, the chain on the ground.

“And they found me.”

The Jokester rakes a hand through his hair, tilting his head. “Is the motorcycle in there?”

“Everything is in there.” Apart from the spare suit in the apartment, everything he used as Batman had been hidden here for his use, ever since— He stops. “Wait. Not everything.”

  


* * *

  


“One more bite of your peas and then you can go,” Barbara says to Barbie sternly. Barbie scowls at her plate.

“I hate peas,” she says.

“Hey, kiddo, give peas a chance,” Gordon says, causing both Barbara and James to roll their eyes simultaneously. Barbie transfers her scowl to him but obediently opens her mouth when Barbara holds up the spoon. The peas disappear into her mouth and she immediately slides of the chair.

“I want you to chew and swallow those peas!” Barbara calls after her as Barbie disappears down the hall.

“May I be excused?” James asks politely, his plate empty.

“Go ahead,” Gordon replies.

Barbara smiles tiredly as James disappears after Barbie. “I guess we’ll be having family dinners more regularly now that you’re home for a while.”

“There is that,” Gordon agrees with a chuckle. He drains the rest of the wine in his glass.

“What was work calling about earlier?”

“Ah.” Gordon puts down the glass. “It wasn’t work. It was Batman.”

Barbara raises one eyebrow. “Did he apologize for getting you suspended?” she asks dryly.

“He has some information for a case I was working on. He’s doing his best, Barbara.”

“His best for Gotham, I’m sure,” Barbara agrees. “For his allies, not so much.”

The doorbell rings. Gordon pushes back his chair. “I’ll get it,” he says. Barbara nods and begins to clear the table. Gordon checks the window beside the front door and sees Ramirez and an officer he doesn’t recognize. Ramirez doesn’t look happy.

“What’s going on?” Gordon asks, pulling the door open.

“Commissioner Gordon, you’re under arrest,” the other officer says. His nametag reads Parker.

“On what charges?”

“I’m sorry, Commissioner,” Ramirez says, looking upset. “Someone spotted Batman leaving your property earlier today. You’re being charged with harboring a known fugitive.”

“Harboring a—? Are there actually witnesses?” Gordon exclaims.

“We’ve been keeping an eye on you since yesterday,” says Parker. He takes handcuffs off his belt. “Please come quietly.”

Gordon allows the man to cuff him. Barbara comes from the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she says, looking from Gordon to Ramirez to Parker. “What’s happening?”

“It’ll be okay,” Gordon says. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

He can tell she gets it when she glares at him, but she says nothing else.

“We’ll take good care of him, Barbara,” Ramirez tells her. Barbara gives her a cold glare and Ramirez looks uncomfortably away. The officers lead Gordon from the house.


	8. Chapter 8

The curtains shift at the window and Police Commissioner Gregory Davis glances up, his hand stopped in mid-reach towards his coffee cup. For one terrifying moment he thinks the shape in the corner is Batman.

Then the shadow moves and Owlman steps into the light and Davis trades one anxiety for another. The light catches reflections off the metal things on his belt and Davis shifts uncomfortably. He saw what those things did to Mayor Garcia and he knows the only thing keeping him from the same fate is his usefulness.

“I have some news,” he says.

“You arrested the ex-Commissioner,” Owlman replies.

“Uh, yes.” Davis frowns. “We discovered that he was meeting with Batman.”

Owlman moves forward, silent on the carpeted floor, and stops in front of the Commissioner’s desk. The desk lamp sends yellow light across the planes of his face. “You knew he was meeting with Batman and you didn’t tell me?”

Davis shakes his head. “No, no, of course not. We didn’t know he was meeting with Batman until afterwards. Someone on Gordon’s block reported a car parked in a back alley behind his house. Someone else saw Batman in the car in a parking lot. We knew the car was owned by the late D.A. Harvey Dent, so we sent people to his apartment and discovered that someone had spent some time there. We picked up the car by the docks.”

“Where at the docks?”

Davis glances down at the report his secretary gave him earlier. “The corner of Thurston and Holland.”

Owlman says nothing and Davis can’t tell whether or not he is pleased. He looks back down at his notes, desperate for another piece of news. “We think he’s working with someone else. We found—well, we found a suit at Dent’s apartment. We think he’s working with the Joker.”

“The Joker?”

“He was a terrorist working in the city about six months—”

“I know who the Joker is.”

“The suit in the apartment looked just like one that the Joker used to wear. Or, well, close enough—”

Owlman comes around the desk in one smooth move, yanking the mayor half out of his seat with a grip on his hair. His owl-shaped blade is at Davis’s throat.

“How is it different?”

Davis swallows and feels the blade dig into his flesh a little. “Uh, I—” He coughs. “The, uh… the colors—”

“The colors were different,” Owlman echoes. There is something in his expression that Davis can’t read—elation? Fury? “You didn’t tell me when you found out.”

“I’m sorry,” Davis chokes out. “It was just a few hours ago. There were other things—”

“What did I tell you about giving me information? Did I tell you to wait until it was convenient?” Owlman’s voice is mild but his eyes are bright, pupils large and almost manic. It’s as if someone just turned the lights on in an empty room.

“No.” Davis rolls his eyes towards the door, praying that his secretary Bernard will hear something and come in to investigate.

“What did I tell you?”

“To let you know immediately.”

“Or else…?” Owlman draws out the phrase in a way that’s almost indulgent, almost playful.

“Or you’d—” Davis coughs again. “You’d cut off my fingers.”

“Do you want me to cut off your fingers?”

Davis closes his eyes, tears squeezing out. “No, please, no.”

“I’ll give you a choice, okay? You only get this choice once.” Owlman waits for Davis’s nod. “Either I cut off two of your fingers right now, and four the next time you disappoint me, and both your hands on the third time, and we progress from there…” He pauses to let that sink in. Davis is shaking his head back and forth. “Or I punish someone else this time, and you get off free.”

Davis opens his eyes, startled.

“And the next time you disappoint me, I just cut off your head.”

Davis breathes open-mouthed, his nose clogged with snot. Thirty years as a cop has trained him in reading people and he can see the barely restrained violence in the man in front of him. Owlman is watching him intently, waiting for his answer.

“Who will you punish?” Davis asks hoarsely.

Owlman smiles. “Your secretary,” he says.

“Yes, okay, okay,” Davis says, nodding, his nose spilling over. Owlman lets go of him and he sags in his seat, breathing heavily, rubbing at his face with his sleeve. There is a sheen of grease on the edge of the blade from Davis’s skin.

“Call him in,” Owlman says.

Davis picks up the phone and Owlman moves to the door. Bernard picks up on the first ring.

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you come in here for a sec?” Davis asks, hearing his voice waver slightly.

“Of course.” Bernard hangs up. In a moment, the door opens. Bernard is a young man, fresh out of college. His suit is a little wrinkled, which isn’t surprising after working this late.

“Did you want something?” Bernard asks, coming into the room. Owlman steps up behind him, one arm hooking around his neck, the other coming up with the blade. Bernard flails when Owlman drags him backwards, taking him off balance. Bernard crashes back into Owlman’s chest with a cry.

Owlman’s blade goes into Bernard’s mouth, hooks and yanks. His cheek splits all the way to his back teeth. Davis is frozen in his chair, his hands clenched on the arm rests, his eyes fixed on them, his breath stopped in his throat.

Owlman moves Bernard forward, slamming him into the edge of Davis’s desk. One of Bernard’s hands curls around Owlman’s wrist. The other gropes blindly at Davis’s desk, perhaps looking for a weapon. Davis looks down at his desk, looking to see if there is anything Bernard can get his hands on.

“Don’t look away,” Owlman says. Davis looks up again quickly. Bernard’s eyes are wide and fixed on him. Owlman twists the blade in Bernard’s mouth, reversing it, and then yanks it to the other side, splitting Bernard’s other cheek open. The blade pops free of the corner of Bernard’s mouth and Bernard sags forward, his mouth opening far too wide.

“What’s your name?” Owlman says to the secretary. He bends forward, his hips pinning Bernard to the desk, and brings his mouth close to Bernard’s ear. “What’s your name?”

Bernard makes wordless sounds, his breath coming hard.

“Can’t hear you,” Owlman says, fitting the knife into his mouth again.

“His name’s Bernard,” Davis says quickly.

“Bernard,” Owlman echoes. “You know, Bernard, Commissioner Davis here told me to do this to you. Want to know why?” He waits for a response, doesn’t receive one, and continues: “He was afraid of losing two little fingers. Well, not little fingers. I was going to take his thumbs.” Owlman’s knife presses firmly into the space behind Bernard’s molars. “He didn’t want that, so instead I’m going to take your lower jaw.”

The knife sinks in and Davis can’t look away.

  


* * *

  


The waterfall at the edge of the grounds of Wayne Manor has nearly frozen solid in the extended cold of winter. The rocks of the cliff are white with the buildup of frozen spray and the trees around the cliff bow down, branches encased in glass as thick as fingers.

A thick white tentacle of ice juts out and down from the cliff above, slick with the water that still runs over it. The snow on the ground here is already coated with a layer of ice that cracks like crème brûlée when they break through it. Their footsteps leave dark scars in the snow.

Batman steps out onto the ice and squeezes through the opening behind the waterfall. A little more ice accumulation and it will be too small to get in. The Jokester squeezes in after him.

“You lived here?” he asks in a whisper. His voice bounces off the cavern walls anyway.

“The Manor burned down a year and a half ago,” Bruce replies, lighting a flashlight and shining it down the tunnel. The air is still and cold. “They’re supposed to finish rebuilding it next year, but now…” He trails off. Now that he’s on the run from the police, it will never be finished. The thought makes him ache for his father’s memory.

The Jokester’s footsteps scrape the stone floor tiredly. They had cased the docks exhaustively after discovering the shipping containers on the Wayne property. The property was locked and, knowing the security cameras and other measures Batman had set up there, he was afraid to venture onto the lot and alert Owlman or his henchmen to their presence prematurely. They had visited his other lot, a smaller unmarked one a few blocks out that was connected underground with a tunnel so he could take the Batmobile in and out of his bunker without it obviously disappearing into Wayne Enterprises property. This, two, was blocked off with new locks. The only reassurance that Batman could take from the whole affair was that he and Alfred had destroyed the staggering majority of his ledgers and sensitive information six months ago. With the Batmobile destroyed by the Joker and after his own quick raid on the bunker last night to get his suit and tools, there was very little in there that Owlman could use, apart from the sophisticated computer set up and easy access in and out of the docks undetected.

After that, it took them half the night to reach the Wayne Manor grounds on foot. The Palisades are about as far from the docks of Gotham as one can get without actually leaving the city limits, and once out of the city proper the buildings are shorter and farther apart, so no gliding.

The beam of the flashlight bobs off the walls. Stalactites gleam somewhere far ahead of them. Another ten feet and the sound of the cavern opens around them, large and echoing and empty. It’s even quieter than Batman remembers because the constant noise of running water has been silenced by the cold.

“There’s a generator around here somewhere. The power was always touchy so I kept one around in case of blackouts. Didn’t want to be stranded down here in the dark.” Batman briefly flicks his flashlight up and the ceiling shifts, a velvety living darkness. Annoyed chirps and squeals erupt at the sudden light and a few bits of darkness detach themselves and flicker out of the flashlight beam. He lowers the light.

Against the far wall, out of reach of the usual creeping dampness of the caves, are boxes and canisters and the predicted generator. There are a few gas cans sitting nearby. Batman hands the flashlight to the Jokester and then fills the generator.

It hums and then roars to life. The strings of incandescent bulbs around them flare to light with a buzz. The ceiling explodes around them, bats disturbed out of their rest. The Jokester ducks, swearing and covering his head, but Batman stands and watches as they swirl and then resettle further down the cave, out of the light.

The light reveals the debris that was never moved to the bat-bunker. Most is packed in cardboard boxes and stacked against the wall. The heavy machinery that he used to make his batarangs and other custom made bits is still here, as it was too large and obvious to move to the bunker.

“What is all this stuff?” The Jokester wanders to the cardboard boxes and opens one, then starts to laugh. He takes out a Batman cowl. “How many of these do you _have_?”

“Ten thousand,” Batman says. The Jokester’s gaze flicks to him, trying to tell if he’s serious, and then he dissolves into laughter. “I had to order enough of them so it didn’t seem suspicious,” Batman adds, which doesn’t help the Jokester’s hilarity.

There is a cot in the corner, a footlocker underneath it, and a showerhead attached to the wall, half hidden behind a folding wooden screen that he had moved down from the Manor, and now probably one of the only surviving pieces of furniture his parents had owned. In the corner is a door that leads to a tiny bathroom.

“Suh-wanky,” the Jokester says, spying the cot. “Do you have a mini-fridge and a beanbag chair?”

“Make yourself at home,” Batman says, moving distractedly to the last thing in the room, hidden under an oiled cloth. He pulls off his mask and tosses it aside, then grabs the edge of the cloth and pulls. The skeleton of a motorcycle sits underneath.

“Is that our ride?” the Jokester says doubtfully, approaching it.

“Eventually.” Bruce takes off his gauntlets and pulls a toolbox out from under the bike. “It needs a tune-up.”

The Jokester circles the bike, looking at it critically from all sides. “Did you modify this yourself? That couldn’t possibly come standard.” He squats next to the grappling gun attachment and reaches out one gloved hand to touch the curve of the grapple.

“Someone told me I needed to get a hobby like a normal person,” Bruce says, opening the lid of the toolbox and rummaging through it. The tools are old and familiar in his hands. He left this bike behind in the move from the manor to the bunker a year and a half ago because he had purchased better bikes and cars, but the hours he’d spent down here working on this when he was first becoming Batman, Alfred coming down to bring him food when he forgot to eat, were peaceful hours from a better time. Not that there had ever been a time in Bruce’s life that he would have classified as “good” but it had been a time when Alfred and Rachel were alive. He hadn’t known how good he had it then.

“I thought normal billionaires just bought motorcycles and then crashed them.” The Jokester stands up and pulls off his gloves, blowing on his fingers to warm them up.

“I did that too,” Bruce admits. “It was strangely unfulfilling. It’s cold in here, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” the Jokester drawls, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Unless you have some way of warming me up that you’re not offering.” He turns casually away as Bruce gives him a startled glance, and he starts to stroll down the length of the cave back to the machinery.

Bruce swallows. “You could start a fire,” he suggests after the pause starts to stretch awkwardly long.

The Jokester shoots him a grin over his shoulder. “With what? Batman masks piled high? Burn yourself in effigy?”

“We might be able to find some firewood outside.” Bruce stands up. “There’s probably some deadfall in the woods. It’ll be wet with the snow but we might be able to get something started.”

“Ooh, then we can _snare a rabbit_ and cook us up some dinner,” the Jokester says, clapping his hands together.

Bruce smiles, heading back for the tunnel that leads to the cave entrance. “First you’re making fun of me for acting like a billionaire, and now you’re making fun of me for knowing some real world skills?”

The Jokester follows. “Not making fun,” he protests. “Just trying to figure you out. Were you a boy scout? …Or the _billionaire equivalent_ of a boy scout?”

“I studied martial arts in Bhutan. ” They reach the mouth of the cave and squeeze out. The woods are dark around them. A few bats flicker overhead.

“I guess that would be the billionaire equivalent,” the Jokester mutters, keeping his voice quieter now that they’re outside.

“I didn’t have any money. I was trying to learn something about the world.” Bruce crunches into the snow and they move under the cover of the trees, where the snow is shallower. There are enough branches on the ground to fuel the fire for a few hours.

“And did you?”

“I learned how to build a fire, didn’t I?” Bruce heaves up a log and shakes the snow off it. The table saw inside should make short work of it.

“Bet it was a hit at parties.” The Jokester’s arms are full of kindling. He carries it back to the entrance and piles it up.

“As far as anyone else knew, I went backpacking across Europe for a couple years.”

“You weren’t Batman then, were you? Why keep secrets?” The Jokester brushes dirt off his coat.

Bruce pauses, about to put the log with the pile of wood. “It wasn’t a part of this life. No one would understand it.”

“Still trying to be _normal_?” The Jokester sounds sardonic.

Bruce drops the log onto the pile with a crash and grits his teeth. “What’s wrong with trying to be normal?”

“The idea that there even is such thing as ‘normal’.” The Jokester says the last word laughingly.

Bruce brushes past him on the way back into the stand of trees. “You have a lot more freedom to do things when people think you’re just like them.”

“No, you have freedom when you don’t care what people think about you.” The Jokester follows him, heading for a fallen tree whose branches jut into the air.

“If you didn’t care what people thought of you, you wouldn’t have had to put on your makeup when we were looking for Owlman earlier,” Bruce snaps, fed up with the Jokester’s amusement.

The Jokester stops next to the tree and turns to stare at him, his face gone blank. “I don’t care what Owlman thinks.”

“No. Of course not.” Bruce grabs a branch of the dead tree and snaps it off.

“Owlman can go fuck himself. I’m not going to run around with someone who’s dressed as a bat and not put on—”

“Everything you are is because of Owlman,” Bruce interrupts. “You became a famous comedian because of him. He punished you and so you became the Jokester because you knew it would piss him off, and you actually believe that you don’t care what he thinks?”

The Jokester opens his mouth to retort, then takes a breath and stops. “Guess I really hit a nerve with that whole ‘trying to be normal’ thing, huh?” he says, his voice light but his expression still blank.

It’s not an apology but Bruce decides to take it as such. “I think this is enough firewood for now.” Bruce heads back to the piled wood by the entrance and after a pause, the Jokester follows.

Back inside, it is fast work to get a fire started with the kindling and some crumpled paper from the crates of masks. Bruce wheels the motorcycle a little closer to the fire so his hands aren’t numb when he works on tightening bolts and greasing joints. The Jokester paces to the heavy machinery again, obviously interested.

“I never had anything this fancy but I did work on my own gadgets,” he says, moving around the table. “I made this belt—oh, _dammit_.” He’s looking down at his pants. “I forgot that I left my suit at the other apartment.”

“What a loss,” Bruce says dryly.

“I _liked_ that suit.” The Jokester sighs and looks down at his belt buckle. “At least I still have this.” The buckle is in the shape of a smiley face.

Bruce glances uncomfortably at the belt. “You made that yourself?”

“Eddie helped. He was a fan of gadgets. It was his workshop, anyway….” The Jokester trails off.

Bruce gives him a second to continue, and when it seems he isn’t planning on it, asks “Eddie who?”

“Uh.” The Jokester looks at him, startled, as if he had forgotten Bruce was there. “Oh. Eddie was my…we lived together. Him and me and Eve and our daughter Duela. That was my family.”

“You have a daughter?” Bruce blinks at him in shock. “Really?”

“Yeah.” The Jokester suddenly smiles fondly. “Duela. She’s great.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.” Off of Bruce’s look, he adds, “Yes, I was seventeen when she was born.” The Jokester leaves the machinery and comes back to the fire, sitting on the cold stone floor a couple feet away and warming his hands.

“You just don’t seem like the fatherly type.” Bruce pauses. “No offense or anything.”

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are. I didn’t know Eve was pregnant when she disappeared. Ran into her two years ago with Eddie and Duela. Duela’s the best long-lost daughter a guy could ever have.”

“She must be wondering where you’ve gone.”

“Nah.” The Jokester looks away. “She disappeared eight months ago. I—there was an incident.”

Bruce hesitates, putting his tools back in the toolbox. “And Eve and Eddie?” he asks carefully.

“Uh, yeah. They’re gone too,” the Jokester says shortly.

“I’m sorry.” Bruce gets to his feet.

The Jokester sends him a brief glance, then looks away again. “Thanks.”

Bruce swings a leg over the bike and makes a last check before he starts it up. The cavern fills with the awesome roar of the bike, exhaust belching from the pipe. The last of the bats that had suffered through the electric lights and smoke of the fire finally get the hint and flap away, heading deeper into the cave or further back down the tunnel.

“Guess it works,” the Jokester says.

Bruce lets it run for another minute, listening carefully, then shuts it off. “Sounds pretty good. It’ll get us where we need to go.”

“Can’t tow too many shipping containers behind it, I don’t think,” the Jokester says.

Bruce gets off the motorcycle. “If I can get in touch with Gordon, the police can take care of it. Gordon knows who to trust in the force to get it done.” Bruce doesn’t voice his other thought: he can’t think of any good reason why Gordon wouldn’t have responded to his messages by now.

He stretches and moves to the cot. The footlocker underneath is not locked, and inside it are two blankets, a neatly folded set of nightclothes, and a handful of granola bars. Bruce would sometimes work through the night or come back late from patrolling the streets and be too tired to go upstairs to his own bedroom, so Alfred would leave this down here for him. For one long minute, Bruce fiercely wishes that Alfred were alive. Then he pushes that back down.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says over his shoulder. “There are two blankets here. You can take the cot. Drag it closer to the fire so you don’t freeze to death.” He takes the nightclothes and heads behind the wooden screen, peeling off bits of Batman armor as he goes.

The pipes groan and complain for a minute and Bruce fears that the water has been shut off or perhaps the pipes are frozen but finally water gurgles out, first rusty, then clear and cold. Bruce takes off the last of the armor and ducks briefly under the spray, rubbing his hands through his hair and over his face. His head throbs as if he has been clenching his jaw all day.

When he comes out again, dressed in the comfortable old clothes Alfred left him, the Jokester hasn’t moved from his spot by the fire. Bruce grabs a blanket and a granola bar from the footlocker and drops it next to the Jokester, then sits down next to the fire as well.

“The water’s fucking freezing,” he says.

The Jokester glances at him and his eyes widen fractionally as if he’s surprised to see Bruce in nightclothes, damp from the shower, no Batman costume in sight. The once-over that he gives Bruce is so quick that Bruce nearly doesn’t catch it. “And where were you smuggling that extra set of clothes?”

Bruce smiles. “They were here, just in case.”

“Boy scout.” The Jokester rises to his feet and heads into the bathroom. There is more grinding of pipes and then the sound of water running in the sink. Jackie reemerges after a moment, the makeup washed off, his coat unbuttoned, his hair damp as if he raked a wet hand through it.

“You can take the cot,” Jackie announces when he gets back to the fire. “I can sleep on the ground.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re a guest. Also, you’re considerably older than me.”

“Considerably older?” Jackie raises an eyebrow. “I doubt it.”

“Two entire years.”

“A lifetime,” Jackie allows. “I’m probably not going to fall asleep anyway. You take the cot.”

“Insomnia?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bruce wraps his blanket around his shoulders and gets up to add another log to the fire. Sleeping doesn’t come easy to him, either, and every time he blinks he can see Alfred behind his eyelids, bound in that painful arch, his face twisted in the effort to keep from falling. He sits back down next to Jackie, digging his fingernails into his palm to distract himself.

“That incident with your family—did it involve Owlman?” He knows he’s touching on a painful subject but he says it anyway, watching the light of the fire send strange shadows across Jackie’s scars.

“Yes.” A pause, and then Jackie relents and continues: “He had a sidekick who went by the name of Talon. Duela fell in love with Talon, but when she brought him to our house to meet us, the others followed them. Eddie and Eve were killed. I should have died too.” He hesitates. “I should have died _in their place_. I saw what they did to—” He breaks off, turning his face away from Bruce.

“But Duela got away?”

Jackie lifts his shoulders in a shrug. There is a pause before he speaks again. “I never saw her or Talon again. I really hope that Talon was just as naïve as she was, and he didn’t know that they would follow him. I really hope he was in love with her.”

“And that was eight months ago? What have you been doing since then?”

Jackie glances at him and doesn’t answer. Up close, Bruce can see the remnants of smile lines around his eyes and for a moment he wonders if the Joker has those lines. He wonders if the Joker has a past like this or if, like Owlman, he only creates them.

The heat from the fire makes the skin on his face tighten and when he blinks he can still see Alfred hanging there, waiting for Bruce to save him, and so instead of letting himself think about it, he leans forward and puts his hand on the back of Jackie’s neck. He stops there, incapable of making it the last few inches.

Jackie freezes, his breath stopping in his throat. They stare at each other from inches away. Bruce wants to close the gap. He wants to forget everything that has been hanging over him for the past twenty-four hours. He wants to bury all of his problems in the person sitting here with him and he wants the lassitude that comes after really good sex and he doesn’t want to have to sit here and try not to fall asleep and wait for the sun to rise and the real world to wake up again so he can get back to work.

Jackie’s eyes are dark and unreadable and when Jackie leans forward, there is the briefest instant where Bruce thinks that their lips will meet and they will kiss and things will proceed from there.

Bruce pulls back, letting go of Jackie’s neck. Jackie nearly loses his balance, catching himself with one hand on the floor, and Bruce gets to his feet. Jackie stares up at him, shocked speechless.

“You take the cot. I’m going to take a walk,” Bruce says, and he heads for the mouth of the cave.


	9. Chapter 9

The Major Crimes Unit is different when Gordon’s not in charge. He was only in charge here for a year and it’s been six months since his promotion to Commissioner but Anna Ramirez still finds herself thinking of her time here in terms of Gordon and After Gordon.

For one thing, there were a lot more criminals in the cells when Gordon was in charge, and fewer of them working at the desks.

“Morning,” says Manheim, the new head of Major Crimes. He pulls off his gloves and pauses by Ramirez’s desk, brushing snow off his coat. The office is bustling with the usual morning activity. “I heard about Gordon.”

“They have him down in County,” Ramirez says. “They think we’d be soft on him here.”

Gordon had handpicked his team here, and maybe he was naïve when he thought that they wouldn’t betray him. Ramirez isn’t proud of what she did. If she could do it again, she would change a lot of things. Sure, she was in debt with her mother’s hospital bills when Maroni’s men approached her, but she would rather pay off that debt for the rest of her life than have to remember the funeral of A.D.A. Rachel Dawes and know that it was entirely her fault. She might not have meant any harm but she certainly caused it.

Manheim snorts. “Soft. Gordon’s been working with Batman for years and everyone knew it. I’m not convinced he didn’t know who Batman was from the beginning. I’m no saint but I’m not going soft on someone who was helping a cop-killer. ”

“Gordon’s a good man,” Ramirez says. “He did what he thought was best.”

Manheim gives her a long, cool look. “Hmm. Then again, maybe they were right putting him in County.”

Right after everything went down six months ago, Gordon had taken her aside. He told her that he knew what she had done and he knew why she had done it. He told her that after helping that terrorist bring down the best hope Gotham had for the future, the least she could do was make sure that no one knew how far Harvey Dent had fallen. If she told everyone that Harvey Dent was a hero, he would make sure she got off light on the charges of aiding and abetting a known criminal.

“I didn’t say I thought he was innocent,” Ramirez says. Manheim nods, tight-lipped, and continues through the room towards his own office. Ramirez sighs and gets up, heading for the coffee pot. She’s only on for another hour but she’s going to need some help getting through it.

Manheim leans out of his office, holding a manila envelope. “Did this come today?”

“Just about ten minutes ago,” Parker says from his desk. Ramirez pours powdered creamer into her cup, stirring it until the lumps dissolve. When she turns back to Manheim, he’s frowning at the letter, still standing in his doorway.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” Ramirez asks.

Manheim scratches his forehead. “There’s about to be. Contact the mayor’s office, would you? Though I bet he already got a copy.”

Parker leaps to comply, picking up the phone. Manheim waves Ramirez over and she approaches. He hands her the letter.

“A ransom note for the Kasel shipment. They want two mil for the shipment, or the hospitals will never see the medicine.”

“Who does?”

Manheim looks down at the bottom of the letter. “There’s some weird symbol here. You know, like the Daewoo logo?”

Ramirez squints at it. “No, it’s an owl,” she says. “Owlman.”

“Is that what that’s supposed to be?” Manheim glances over at the bulletin board. Sometime yesterday someone had torn down the pictures under the Batman list of suspects, replacing the pictures of Sasquatch, Abraham Lincoln and Elvis with a photo of Bruce Wayne clipped from the paper. Above that is a new section titled Owlman: Suspects. The only picture there is a photo of Britney Spears.

“Let the mayor’s office know if they don’t already. Looks like it’s going to be another busy day.”

  


* * *

  


“So now that Gordon can’t help, what _is_ your plan for moving the containers?” The Jokester has to shout to be heard over the wind and the roar of the motorcycle. They are making their way down the interstate back into the city.

“I don’t know,” Batman shouts back. The Jokester is pressed against his back, and the wind is sucking away every bit of warmth except where the two of them are pressed together. It was more than a little awkward at first, the Jokester wrapping his arms around Batman’s waist and clutching him a little nervously when the bike lurched forward and fishtailed in the snow, but the Jokester likes to think that Batman is finding it equally weird.

They haven’t spoken about what happened. Actually, the Jokester isn’t entirely sure that he knows what happened. Maybe he just read the signals wrong. Maybe when Bruce clasped him on the back of the neck and leaned in, that was this world’s gesture for some sort of manly…no, he didn’t read the signals wrong.

He leans forward, flattening his chest against the pack on Batman’s back where his cape is hidden, and leans close to Batman’s ear. “We don’t need to move the containers, just the stuff inside them.”

Batman turns his head slightly to the side. “That’s two tons of ‘stuff’,” he shouts over his shoulder.

The Jokester shrugs even though he knows Batman can’t see it. “A few big vehicles, or a whole lot of little ones.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“I might.”

The wind whips past them. The roads are crusted with salt and sand that makes turns tricky but Batman doesn’t seem to be letting up on the speed. They wind amongst the cars, easily passing them.

“Are you going to tell me?” Batman shouts to him after a pause.

“School buses.” The Jokester squints ahead of them at the skyscraper approaching. “Six of them.”

“That’s not very subtle, is it?”

“Exactly.” The Jokester pats him on the shoulder.

The shadow of Wayne Enterprises falls over them. They veer left and catch the ramp leading down, where the highway slides underneath the skyscraper.

“Where are we going?” the Jokester asks.

“I have to talk to someone.” The first highway exit is marked with a sign for the Wayne Enterprises parking garage. They roll inside. Batman stops for the parking ticket at the gate, which makes the Jokester snort.

Off the bike and into the elevator, they could be anyone. Batman takes off his helmet and mask, sliding on sunglasses and a winter hat instead. The rest of the Batman costume could be a leather biking outfit. With his scarf, a hat and Harvey’s coat, the Jokester is anonymous again.

The elevator reaches the lobby level and they step out into a marble foyer with banks of elevators separated into sections of low-rise, mid-rise and high-rise. Bruce moves purposely towards the bank of low-rise elevators and Jackie trails behind, looking around. Everyone is in business suits and looks as if they have important places to be. He catches the reflection of his own striped pants in the mirrored surfaces of the elevator doors. Maybe they weren’t the subtlest pants he could have picked out of Harvey’s wardrobe. Snazzy, though.

They step into the elevator with two other people and Bruce thumbs the button for level B-3, which is the lowest level on the row of buttons. The doors of the elevator close and they shoot down with such velocity that Jackie actually grabs the wall. He sees Bruce smirk in the reflection in the door.

The elevator stops a heartbeat later at level B-three and they step out into a hallway. The doors close behind them.

“This is the Research and Development Department,” Bruce says. “I used to work here.”

“Work here? But don’t you own the company?”

“Actually, at the time, I didn’t.”

They reach a set of doors with a keypad lock. The place seems empty so far, no other people bustling around. Bruce types something into the keypad and the door slides open.

“Is there security on this place? Will they notice us coming in?” the Jokester asks, looking back at the closed elevator doors.

“I’m counting on it,” Bruce replies.

They step through into a large room, like a warehouse. There are rows of shelving packed with lethal looking things. A sleek black motorcycle sits on its kickstand in between rows of shelving. Bruce leads the way down the rows of shelves to an area with a wall of television screens, all of which are off.

“Lucius Fox is a friend,” Bruce says, sitting down in the lone chair in front of the televisions and taking off his sunglasses. “He has always known who I am.”

“So he won’t call the police,” the Jokester says.

“Theoretically.” Bruce smiles, benign. The smile makes Jackie’s stomach flip-flop uncomfortably. He would never deny the preternatural good looks of the Wayne family, but when combined with that easy smile, it unlocks things inside of his chest that he has been repressing for far too long.

“About last night,” he begins.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the cops,” comes a calm voice from the doorway. They both turn.

“Lucius,” Bruce says warmly, standing. “You wouldn’t call the cops on your good friend.”

The man is elderly, perhaps in his seventies, but he moves with a restrained grace as he comes toward them. He gives the Jokester a nod. “Maybe not. The police have been sniffing around here, though. Apparently they have some sort of theory that you’re Batman.”

“I don’t know where they got the idea,” Bruce says with a sly grin. “I need to ask you a favor.” He looks almost cheerful, oozing charisma, and Jackie suddenly realizes that in the two days he’s known Bruce now, this is the first time he has seen the Bruce Wayne mask. The exhaustion, the dark humor, the tightly wound pain—all of that has slid out of sight.

“Somehow I didn’t think you were here to chat.” Lucius smiles. “What do you need?”

“I need a way to communicate with people from a long distance.”

“I’d suggest a telephone.”

“It has to be untraceable. The police know my cell phone number now that they have Gordon, so if I turn on the phone, they can trace my location. I don’t want anyone to be able to trace my location, including the people I’m talking to.”

Lucius nods. “I think we might have something you could use over here.”

They start walking the length of the room, Bruce falling into step beside Lucius while the Jokester trails behind, peering left and right at the interesting gadgets on the shelves. Everything here is smooth and gleaming and expensive-looking.

Lucius glances over his shoulder at the Jokester again. “Bruce doesn’t usually bring his friends on these trips,” he says with a smile. The smile appears friendly but at the same time Jackie senses an undercurrent of challenge.

“This is Jackie,” says Bruce, half-turning back to Jackie to include him in the conversation. His expression is still mild, his forehead un-creased. “He’s helping me out.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Jackie, shaking Lucius’ hand. Lucius’ grip is firm.

“Lucius Fox. I’m the C.E.O. here. Have I met you before?”

“Don’t think so.” Jackie resists the urge to adjust his scarf.

Lucius nods. “Well, here we are.” He stops at a shelf they had passed on the way in, next to the motorcycle. Taking a box from the shelf, he opens it up, displaying rows of neatly packed devices that look like hearing aids. “These are ear pieces that the FBI has been working on for field agents. They run on body heat and are mostly plastic, so metal detectors won’t pick them up. They don’t have GPS and don’t use the cell phone network, so your location can’t be triangulated when they’re in use. They emit and communicate on an encrypted wireless network that runs the signal through every headset in the field, so no one can tell where one particular command is coming from.” He picks one out of the foam and holds it up. It’s made of clear plastic and is the size of a fingernail.

Bruce takes it and fits it into his ear. “How do you turn it on?”

“Say ‘alpha’ to start transmission and ‘omega’ to end it.” Lucius smiles, showing a row of neat white teeth. “It had to be a word you wouldn’t use in normal conversation.”

“Unless you’re in church,” Jackie volunteers. Both of them look at him and he shrugs. “Which…probably won’t be an issue.”

“Try one,” Bruce says, handing one of the earpieces to him. Jackie takes it and puts it in his ear. It fits comfortably inside his ear canal, which makes him wonder how exactly he’s going to get it out.

Bruce retreats ten feet down the aisle and mutters something. The words “can you hear me?” come into Jackie’s ear as if Bruce were standing right next to him, whispering in his ear. Chills run down Jackie’s neck.

“Uh, alpha,” he stutters. “I can hear you fine. Omega.”

“Great.” This time Bruce’s voice comes from down the corridor. “How many of these do you have?”

“Thirty-five at the moment,” Lucius replies.

“We’ll take them.” Bruce comes back, one finger in his ear, taking out. “And this motorcycle, too.” He pats the seat of the motorcycle next to them.

“Certainly,” Lucius says blandly. “Is there anything else I can help you gentleman with?”

“Yeah,” says Jackie, before Bruce can respond. “Do you know where we can get a tow truck?”

  


* * *

  


Ramirez isn’t surprised when the shadow in the parking garage detaches itself from the wall and approaches as when she reaches her car. To be honest, she was expecting a visit like this since Gordon was arrested last night.

“Ramirez,” comes Batman’s voice from the shadows. She continues to unlock the door of her car, unhurried.

“Thought I might hear from you,” she says.

“What happened to Gordon?” Batman growls.

She turns to him. “He was arrested last night because someone saw _you_ on his property.”

“Was someone watching his house?”

“Must have been.” She shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. Everyone knows Gordon was working with you.”

“Gordon said that there was corruption in the police but he knew a few good cops who would want to help us.”

Ramirez turns away, opening her car door. “He didn’t talk to me about it.” She doesn’t know how much Batman knows about her part in what happened to Rachel. Gordon must have told him. Is he hurting, letting her go unpunished in order to uphold the greater good?

“He said you were number one on his list. Since he’s not around, I thought you could help me figure out the rest.”

Ramirez stops, her hand on the door. She looks at Batman, her throat tight. “He said that?”

“I trust Gordon’s judgment.” There is no inflection in Batman’s voice.

She could give him names and be done with it but there is something in her chest that is making her hesitate. Two years ago she had no problem with taking bribes and looking the other way.

“Even after everything that happened?” she forces herself to say, her voice hoarse.

There is a pause. Batman’s eyes don’t waver from her face but she can see that he is thinking about it, maybe judging her intention. “Everyone has a limit,” he says finally. “I know there were circumstances.”

“The circumstances shouldn’t have mattered,” Ramirez chokes out. “There was no excuse for what I did.”

“Maybe Gordon trusts you because he knows you believe that,” Batman says. “I want you to get me a list of names. People that will help get the Kasel shipment back.”

“There was a ransom note this morning,” Ramirez says when she can trust her voice again. “Owlman sent one to us, one to the mayor and one to the local news. He wants two million for the shipment, and half a million for every shipment after this one.”

“He has some sort of plan to keep getting a hold of the next shipment?”

“Apparently. The official word from the mayor is to pay the ransom until we can find an alternate source for the medicine that hasn’t been compromised by Owlman.” Ramirez sighs. “Personally I think he’s in with Owlman.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Owlman’s been around for nearly three weeks. He’s got a lot of the crime in the city organized. Everyone pays protection to Owlman’s men and he leaves them alone as long as they don’t cause too much trouble or get any attention from the press. If they keep quiet and organized, the mayor gets to pretend he cleaned up the streets better than Garcia ever could. Some of the protection money makes its way into the mayor’s pockets and any of the police who want to can take a cut. Everyone gets paid, the criminals stay out of the press, and everyone’s happy.”

Batman nods once. “I know where the medicine is.”

“You do?” Ramirez gapes. “That’s—that’s great, but…”

“If what you say is right, the mayor is going to want to make sure no one finds the shipment. If the news gets out, Owlman won’t be happy and the mayor won’t get his cut.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“We’ll have to deliver it to the hospital ourselves.”

“You got some way of trucking around two shipping containers?”

“We’re working on that. You work on getting me the list of men I can trust, the sooner the better. When does Owlman expect the payment?”

“He’s giving the city until Friday at noon.”

“I’d like to know everyone by tonight, then.”

Ramirez nods, then hesitates. “Gordon was arrested for working with you, and he was the Police Commissioner. If any of these police officers get caught, they’ll get worse than that.”

“Let me worry about that.” He takes a box from under his cape and holds it out to her. “Give one of these to every name on your list by seven tonight. I’ll contact you all then.”

Ramirez nods and takes it, then slides into her car and starts it up. In her rearview mirror she can see him watching her as she drives away.

  


* * *

  


The school bus yard is at the southern end of the city, pretty close to the docks, where space is not at such a premium and two acres can be devoted to a parking lot. The school buses sit in long yellow rows.

Gotham City has eleven high schools, twenty-two middle schools and seventeen elementary schools, a total of fifty thousand students in need of buses. The school system employs three hundred school buses.

Tracy Adams sits in the office of the Gotham City School System Bus Company, her feet on the desk, an entire stack of juicy new magazines waiting to be read next to her latte and bagel. The radio on the desk is burbling with the usual traffic as the buses roll out of the lot for the afternoon run: high schoolers at one fifty and all home by two forty-five with a late bus at three; middle schoolers at two thirty and all home by three fifteen with a late bus at four; and elementary schoolers at three ten and all home by four with a late bus at five. That’s a lot of time for magazines. Luckily, Tracy’s a big fan of sudoku.

“Bus eleven to base,” crackles the radio. Tracy takes her feet down and flicks the switch, putting down her magazine.

“This is base, go ahead,” she drawls.

“I’m on Thurston Street by Main and I’m having some engine trouble. Haven’t reached the school yet. I think I’m going to need a tow.”

“Understood.” Tracy picks up the telephone. The number for Peterson’s Towing is on the speed dial, since they have a breakdown pretty much weekly. She’s gotten pretty close to Joe the receptionist there since she first took this job.

“Peterson’s Towing,” says a cheerful voice at the other end.

“Hi, it’s Tracy with Gotham Bus. Joe’s not in today?” Tracy says, disappointed.

“Nah, Joe’s out sick,” says the voice. “I’m Jack. What can I do for you?”

She taps her pen on the magazine. “We’ve got a school bus with engine trouble at Thurston and Main, and we’re going to need a tow.”

“Alright, we can have someone out there in fifteen. You have a wonderful day, Tracy.” She can hear the smile in his voice.

Tracy grins. “You too, Jack.”

She hangs up and then calls a replacement driver to head out with a new bus to pick up the kids who are supposed to go on bus eleven. The whole thing takes about five minutes and as soon as that’s taken care of, she puts her feet up on the desk and picks up her magazine.

She’s gotten halfway through an article on Bruce Wayne when the radio crackles again.

“Bus twenty-eight to base.”

She dog-ears the page and then flips the switch. “This is base, go ahead.”

“I’m having some engine trouble at Main and Birch. I haven’t reached the school yet. I’m going to need a tow.”

Tracy snorts. “It’s the day for it, apparently. I’ll send someone over.” She picks up the telephone again and hits the speed dial.

“Peterson’s Towing.”

“Hey, Jack. It’s Tracy again.”

“Hi, Tracy.” He sounds pleased to hear from her. “The tow truck is still en route but should get back to your base soon.”

“We’ve got another bus having trouble, believe it or not,” Tracy says, twisting her finger in the cord. “This one is at Main and Birch. It’s just a street away from the other bus, if you can believe it.”

“We’ll send someone _right_ over.”

The radio is buzzing. “PS two forty to base.”

“Thanks, Jack, you’re a sweetheart.” Tracy hangs up and hits the switch. “Base to two-forty, go ahead.”

“We’re just wondering where bus eleven is. We’ve got students waiting.”

“Bus eleven was having some engine trouble. Bus thirteen is going to take the route instead,” she chirps sweetly.

“Bus thirteen hasn’t arrived yet.”

Tracy rolls her eyes but keeps her voice even. “Base to bus thirteen, what is your ETA?”

White noise hisses over the radio. She tries again. “Base to bus thirteen.”

“Bus four to base.”

“This is base.”

“I’m having some engine trouble, and I think I’m going to need a tow.”

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

There is a staticky pause. “Ah…no.”

Another transmission interrupts bus four. “PS one fifteen to base.”

Tracy silently raises her middle finger at the radio. “Go ahead, one fifteen.”

“Bus twenty-eight hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Twenty-eight is having engine trouble. I’m going to send in a replacement in a sec.” Tracy picks up the phone and dials the next replacement driver on the list.

“PS two-forty to base, what is the ETA of bus thirteen?” asks the radio.

“Bite me, two-forty,” Tracy says, not hitting the switch.

“Um, what?” a woman says on the phone.

Tracy winces. “Hi, Linda, this is Tracy Adams with Gotham Bus. We’re going to need bus twenty-two to head out and cover for bus twenty-eight.”

“No problem,” Linda replies, sounding slightly confused.

“Thank you so much,” Tracy gushes. She hangs up and hits the switch. “Base to bus thirteen?”

“PS one eighty-two to base.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tracy says. She hits the switch. “Bus four is having engine trouble. I’m sending bus, uh, seven out now.” She picks up the phone.

“Hi, Tracy.”

“Hi, Jack. I’m sorry but we have another bus having trouble. I hope you haven’t run out of tow trucks.”

“Not yet.”

“Hang on, I don’t know where the bus broke down.” She hits the switch on the radio. “Base to bus four, where are you located?”

“This is bus four. The tow truck is just picking us up now.”

“What do you mean, the tow truck—” She brings the phone to her ear. “Jack?”

“PS one-fifteen to base, where is bus twenty-two?”

“PS one eighty-two to base, what is the ETA on bus seven?”

“Hang on, Jack.” Tracy puts him on hold and dials the driver for bus seven. “Geoff, we’re going to need you to cover for bus four.” She switches back to Jack. “Jack? Did you send a tow truck to pick up bus four?”

“I don’t think you’ve told me where bus four is yet,” Jack says, sounding vaguely amused.

“I don’t…they, uh…I guess they’re all set, then.” Tracy frowns blankly at the radio. “Your tow trucks haven’t arrived with buses eleven and twenty-eight yet.”

“I’m sure they’ll get there soon.”

“What is the ETA on bus seven?” PS 182 repeats impatiently.

Tracy hits the switch. “Base to bus seven.” She waits, listening to the static. “Base to bus thirteen.” Still, nothing.

“Don’t they have GPS?” Jack suggests in her ear. She’d forgotten to hang up.

“I think so. Base to bus twenty-two.”

No response. She wheels her chair over to the desktop computer sleeping in the corner and wakes it up. She’d received training on the new program a few months ago but never had to use it. The program launches, bringing up a map of Gotham. Dots move over the map.

“Let’s see. Bus thirteen.” She types in the reference number for the bus. The program hesitates, searching, then pops up with an error message. “What do you mean, reference number not valid?”

“Maybe it’s having engine trouble,” Jack says.

“No, thirteen was the _replacement_ ,” Tracy corrects him. She erases the reference number and tries bus seven. “Bus seven is also invalid.”

“Is your program broken?”

Tracy lets out a snort of air. “How the hell should I know? I’ve never used it before.” She types in a random bus reference number. “Well, it found bus thirty-one, but that one wasn’t missing. Why can’t it find the others?”

“Maybe someone disabled their GPS,” Jack says thoughtfully.

“Disabled their GPS? You mean, like…intentionally?” Tracy types in the reference number for bus eleven, which should be arriving in the lot very shortly. _Reference number not valid_. “How do you disable GPS?”

“Oh, it’s easy. Anything that would block the satellite from getting the signal,” Jack says. “An electronic scrambler would do it. So would taking the whole bus underground. Hell, find the device and give it a good kick and that’ll take care of it.”

“But why?” Tracy sits back in her chair, staring at the screen, ignoring the angry chatter from the radio behind her. “To steal it? Who would steal a school bus?”

“Six school buses.”

“Six? No, just—” Tracy glanced out the window into the lot, where the towed school buses are still failing to materialize. The dial tone rings in her ear. “Jack?”


	10. Chapter 10

“They’re bright yellow, ferchrissake,” Manheim says, his beefy army crossed over his chest, staring out at the assembled crowd of officers. “Six school buses can’t be hard to find, people. Central’s on this case as well and we want to show them how it’s done.”

Ramirez is back by the door, next to Hayton, who is drumming his fingers against his thigh. He glances at her and smirks. He’s the only on in the department to whom she gave an earpiece.

“Any questions?” Manheim finishes. He frowns at Ramirez’s raised hand. “Yeah, Ramirez?”

“Why is the Major Crimes Unit investigating missing school buses, sir?” she asks.

“I’m pretty sure you were around when the Joker was terrorizing the city the first time,” Manheim says witheringly. “He stole a school bus then to rob a bank. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to think he’ll try something similar now that he’s out of Arkham.”

“Rob six banks, maybe,” mutters Hayton.

“But why do we think this is the Joker?” Ramirez presses. “Last time, he broke into the lot and stole one bus that no one even noticed was gone until after the bank was robbed. This time whoever did it stole six buses in broad daylight with a tow truck while on the phone with the bus company and then _told their receptionist what was happening._ ”

“Ramirez, is ‘because I told you so’ not a good enough reason for you? Need I remind you all that Mayor Garcia’s funeral is tomorrow at one, when the school buses are just headed out to pick up the kids? I don’t know what this psycho is planning to do with six school buses but it’s not going to be anything good. Go out there and find those _fucking school buses_. You’re all dismissed.”

Ramirez rolls her eyes as she heads back to her desk. Hayton falls into step beside her.

“Do you think it’s him?” he asks quietly.

“Is who what?”

“Batman. With the school buses. You think that’s how he’s going to move the medicine?”

Ramirez glances over her shoulder at Manheim. “Maybe.” She smirks at Hayton. “I think Owlman thinks it’s him, and he’s got his lackeys jumping to stop it.”

“Ramirez, Hayton, what are you doing?” Manheim says, coming out of the briefing room.

“Finding the fucking school buses, sir,” Ramirez says, and heads out to the lot.

  


* * *

  


By five, Ramirez has handed out twenty-two of the earpieces, which comprises every good cop on her list. The search for the school buses is fruitless, which leads Ramirez to believe that Batman really is the one behind it. Only Batman could make six school buses disappear.

She’s nearly forgotten about the earpieces entirely when seven o’clock comes around. She’s drinking the dregs of cold coffee and typing up a report at her desk when Batman breathes in her ear.

_Hello. If you’re hearing this, that means you’re one of the last trustworthy cops in Gotham._

Ramirez lifts her head and gazes across the room. A few desks down, Hayton glances at her. She nods to him, then looks back at her computer.

_You might not know me enough to trust me, but I trust that you know how to do what’s right. Owlman stole two tons of medicine that was meant for the sick people of Gotham, and he wants two million dollars in ransom before he lets it go. We’re not going to let that happen. Those hospitals need the medicine now, so we’re going to give it to them._

Ramirez sees Manheim come out of his office and head towards the coffee pot so she forces her fingers to move on the keyboard, typing out another line of the report. The sound in her ear is so clear that she’s afraid he can hear it, but he doesn’t seem to notice it as he walks past. He’s looking sour. She wonders what Owlman promised everyone as a reward for finding the school buses.

_Tomorrow, we’re going to take back the medicine. For now, all I’m going to tell you is to do your jobs. Investigate theft. Pursue vigilantes. Whatever your superiors order you to do, do it. When the time comes, you will get the signal. If you don’t think you can do this, please return this earpiece to where you got it._

There is a pause and Ramirez thinks that that is the end of it, but then the last line comes:

_Good luck._

  


* * *

  


“Chicken or pork?” Bruce holds up the two Styrofoam cups of instant noodles and shakes them.

Jackie, pacing from the fire to the motorcycles and back, gives both cups a dubious look. “Chicken,” he says, returning to his pacing, hunched in Harvey’s black overcoat.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to work out,” Bruce says, peeling back the lids on both the cups and taking the kettle off the fire.

Jackie winces. “Jeez, don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.”

“Superstitious?” Bruce smiles, pouring boiling water into the cups. “It’s a good plan. Foolproof, even.”

“Gah.” Jackie makes a pained noise and buries his face in his hands.

“What could possibly go wrong?” Bruce adds.

“Are you almost done?” Jackie says into his hands.

Bruce thinks about it. “Yeah, I think so. But seriously, if things go wrong, there’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying.”

Jackie uncovers his face. “Not if. When. But I’m not worrying about it.” He frowns faintly. “Or at least, I _wasn’t_ …”

“You’re pacing.”

Jackie stops pacing, looking down at his feet. “Sometimes I pace.”

“Your noodles are ready.” Bruce pushes the cup towards him. Jackie circles the fire and picks up the cup, sitting down next to Bruce. He looks into the cup and a nauseated expression crosses his face.

“If you’re not nervous, what’s wrong?”

Jackie puts the cup down and swallows. “Nothing is wrong.”

Bruce shrugs. He digs his disposable chopsticks into the noodles, lifts out a steaming clot, and then lets them slop back into the cup. Jackie makes a noise next to him and then gets up and runs to the bathroom.

Bruce sighs and puts down his own cup of noodles, listening to Jackie retch. When he hears the toilet flush and water running in the sink, he gets up and makes his way to the bathroom.

“Nothing’s wrong?”

Jackie splashes water over his face and then straightens, staring into the mirror over the sink. “I haven’t had my medication in two days,” he says sourly.

“Medication?”

Jackie turns his head slightly to look at Bruce. “Clozapine.”

Bruce frowns. “Which is…?”

“An antipsychotic.” Jackie studies Bruce as if looking for a reaction.

Bruce hesitates, feeling his heart start to sink. “What do you need that for?”

Jackie tilts his head to the side and smirks. “For the _hallucinations_.”

There is a pause. Bruce lets out a breath. “Christ,” he mutters, and turns and leaves the bathroom.

Jackie follows after him a minute later. Bruce stands next to the fire, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You think this changes things?” Jackie asks, stopping a few feet away.

Bruce tries to swallow his annoyance for a second, then gives in. “You think it _doesn’t_?” He shoots a look over at Jackie, who is watching him.

“For tomorrow? No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re not going to start _hallucinating_ in the middle of our plan?”

Annoyance flickers across Jackie’s face. “Thought you said the plan was foolproof. I think I have a few days before that happens. If it’s going to happen. It doesn’t always happen.”

Bruce turns fully to face Jackie. “You _think_? You could have told me this before.”

Jackie shrugs. “Surprise.”

“ _I don’t like surprises_ ,” Bruce snaps.

“Well that’s the only one I’ve got,” Jackie says. “Look, I’m not schizophrenic. I’m bipolar. I hallucinate when I’m manic.”

“And when are you manic?”

Jackie hesitates. “Pretty much always.”

Bruce snorts, turning away.

Jackie sighs, frustrated. “It doesn’t change anything,” he repeats. “I’ve been off the drugs before. It was probably time to go off them again anyway.”

“But why?” Bruce explodes. “What is so good about being crazy?”

“Because there’s nothing wrong with being manic,” Jackie shoots back. “I’ve tried being sane, I really have, but it’s _hard_.”

“Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean you stop trying.”

“Thanks for the _after school special_.” Jackie drops down to sit at the fire again, picking up his cup of noodles. Bruce turns to watch him, feeling frustrated.

“Everyone I’ve fought has been crazy,” Bruce says, trying to take the anger out of his voice. “Jonathan Crane and Ra’s al Ghul made a poison to turn all of Gotham crazy, and I stopped them. The Joker was insane and he tried _so hard_ to bring me down with him and I didn’t fall. I have been fighting this insanity for so long and now you—”

“You’re not fighting insanity,” Jackie interrupts, pointing the chopsticks at him. “You’re fighting crime. There’s a difference.”

“Where is the difference?” Bruce asks helplessly. He sits down where he had been sitting before.

“Everyone you fight is crazy, okay, I’ll give you that,” Jackie says. “In my Gotham, I look at the Crime Society and I see sanity. Everyone goes out and does everything they need to do to get the results they want. It’s perfectly organized crime. Everything runs like clockwork!”

“You think Owlman is _sane_?”

“Absolutely. He knows right from wrong. He does wrong anyway because it benefits him. He wants something, he makes it happen.”

“He’s a sociopath. He kills people for fun. Did you see what he did to the Mayor?”

“You’re confusing sanity with doing good.” Jackie takes a bite of his food. “I think people like to think that someone who does bad things has something mentally wrong with them, because normal people don’t do bad things.”

“And you don’t agree.” Bruce feels the anger drain out of him, leaving exhaustion. He hasn’t slept in a while, and mental gymnastics are making him hurt. He picks up his rapidly cooling cup and begins to eat.

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” Jackie says. “I don’t think I’m a bad person either. I’m not crazy, but I know I’m…mentally different from other people.” He smiles briefly. “Me and the Joker could be the same person. He’s also a little touched in the head. And yet the two of us are _light years_ away from doing the same things. I don’t think crazy has anything to do with what we do. You and Owlman, same past, pretty much sane, and you are polar opposites. Who you are and how you’re born doesn’t have anything to do with what you become.”

Bruce puts down his empty noodle cup. “Now who’s the after school special?” he asks dryly.

Jackie rolls his eyes. “In conclusion, just because I’m crazy doesn’t mean I’m evil.”

That startles a laugh from Bruce. “I didn’t think you were evil.”

“No?” Jackie asks archly.

Bruce sighs and looks away again. “I’m not the same person as Owlman.”

“See, that’s my point. You like to think that there is something physically different about him that makes him do the things he does, because you don’t want to think that you’re capable of the same things.”

“I can’t do the same things he does!” Bruce exclaims. “I don’t kill people. I refuse to kill people.”

“And it’s that choice that makes you a good person. Not because you’re destined to be good, or because you’re the bastion of sanity. You’re good because you do good things.” Jackie puts down his cup.

Bruce rests his elbows on his knees. “Do you kill people?”

Jackie looks up at him. “No.”

“Ever felt tempted?”

Jackie thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs. “Yes,” he says honestly.

Bruce falls silent. He has no intention of continuing but when he opens his mouth the words just spill out. “My parents were killed by a man named Joe Chill. He went to jail for it, but he had incriminating information about Falcone, and they decided to let him out in return for testifying against him. I went to the trial. I brought a gun.”

Jackie waits, watching him. Bruce looks down at his hands.

“I was going to kill him. I had thought about it for _so long_. I dreamed about it. I waited for him in the hallway, the gun in my pocket, and when he came out of the court room, I was ready for him.”

“But you didn’t kill him?” Jackie asks tentatively.

“I didn’t kill him because someone else got there first. I didn’t choose not to kill him because I knew it was wrong. I was just _late_.” Bruce feels his mouth twist bitterly. “I became Batman to stop crime and to save people, and every time I save someone I think that I’m one step farther from the person who would have killed Joe Chill. But you’re saying I’m _constantly_ on the edge of doing bad things, and the only thing that’s keeping me from falling is _me_?”

“You haven’t fallen yet.”

Bruce, still staring at his hands, hears Jackie move closer to him. He refuses to look up. “But I _could_.”

Jackie sits next to him. “Say you do.” His hand reaches out and touches Bruce’s chin. Bruce lifts his head and looks at him. Jackie smiles. “That doesn’t mean you can’t get back up again.”

Jackie leans the rest of the way in and kisses him. Bruce freezes in shock for a second and Jackie seems to falter but Bruce closes his eyes and pushes forward into the kiss. Jackie smells like the greasepaint, even though he’s not wearing it. He is warm and alive in Bruce’s hands, kissing Bruce with an intensity that Bruce hasn’t experienced in so long. Bruce can feel an answering need kindling in his own chest, a desire that he had thought long dead.

_Bruce, why do we fall?_

  


* * *

  



	11. Chapter 11

Everyone is watching the school buses on the day of Mayor Garcia’s funeral.

By the time the sun has risen, the high schoolers are in class and the middle schoolers are just arriving at school. Police cruisers patrol the streets, and as each bus unloads its kids and returns to the lot, they are checked off a list. By ten am, all school buses have been accounted for, and the gates of the bus lot are locked. If there are any school buses in the city now, they will be noticed.

School hours have been extended by an hour so the end of school clears the time frame of the mayor’s funeral. That’s one hurdle out of the way, Manheim muses. At least they don’t have to worry about half the force tied up with the funeral while the school buses are also trying to get home.

Manheim finishes adjusting his tie and steps out of his office into the main room of MCU. Those officers who are going to the funeral are milling around in dress uniforms, while the others, looking drab in their blues, sit at desks with paperwork.

“Don’t you wish you were going?” Cooke says to Hayton, leaning against his desk. Hayton rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like I want to go to a funeral instead. God, I _hate_ funerals.”

“I hear that’s where all the action’s going to be,” says Ramirez.

“I was at the last funeral the Joker decided to crash,” Hayton says. “That’s enough action for me.”

“Alright, people, let’s get going,” Manheim says, reaching the group. “I’d expect this gossip in the girls’ locker room but not among grown men. Let’s head out.”

The assembled officers move en masse to the door, filing out to the parking lot. Cooke raps his knuckles on Hayton’s desk and stands up.

“Enjoy desk duty,” Ramirez says to Hayton with a smirk. She and Cooke head for the door. Manheim moves past them and then pauses in the doorway.

“Ramirez, don’t you have paperwork to do?”

She stares at him. “What?”

He hesitates, frowning as if he’s trying to remember something. “I don’t think I got your completed report on Gordon. Did I?”

Her face drops. Cooke raises his eyebrows but wisely skirts them both and heads for the door without saying anything.

“No, sir,” Ramirez says stiffly.

“Maybe you should work on that,” Manheim says, and turns away, leaving Ramirez fuming next to Hayton’s desk.

  


* * *

  


The wind cuts down the length of the cordoned off street, sending people huddling together and a few hats flying through the air. The police stand at attention down the middle of the street.

There have been some changes from the last big funeral they had in the streets, the funeral of Commissioner Loeb. Now the honor guard has been repeatedly checked for imposters, the dais is ringed with bulletproof plastic, and there are twice as many snipers on the rooftops and police on duty patrolling the crowds with bomb-sniffing dogs. If the Joker is going to attack anyone today, he’s going to have to get creative.

“Mayor Anthony Garcia was a good man and a good mayor,” Silvestri is saying to the crowd, his hands gripping the edges of the podium. “He did his best for this city and Gotham is richer for it.”

Manheim shifts uncomfortably as the cold wind cuts inside the buttons of his jacket. These dress uniforms aren’t made for the cold weather. He glances up towards the empty windows of the buildings overhead. Is something going to happen today, or is everyone getting tense for nothing?

A helicopter drones overhead, circling the block. The vibration of its blades echoes off the building fronts, temporarily drowning out Mayor Silvestri’s voice. His eulogy seems to have turned into a stump speech for the upcoming election. “…And economic growth,” Silvestri concludes.

“Sir,” Cooke hisses next to Manheim. Manheim turns. Cooke is holding a cell phone.

“What?”

“Something’s going on.” Cooke keeps his voice low, although with the wind, the people around them can’t really hear what he’s saying anyway. “Someone called MCU to say that they saw Batman at the Wayne Enterprises shipping yard.”

“And how is that different from all of the other kooks who’ve called in with tips?” Manheim asks dubiously.

“This one said they saw him with a man who looks like the Joker. The details of what we found in Dent’s apartment were never released to the press. No one knows he’s working with the Joker but us.”

Manheim feels a flood of excitement pool in his belly. “Okay. How many units are responding?”

“All of them, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want these psychos getting away.” He gestures for Cooke to follow and starts at a light jog for the nearest street corner, where Reger and Long are doing crowd control, their squad car parked diagonally across the street.

“You two are with me,” Manheim says when he reaches them. “We’re heading to the docks. We’re going to catch this goddamn Batman and his psycho clown.”

  


* * *

  


There are eight squad cars in the Wayne Enterprises shipping yard when Manheim arrives. He sees Gould, Ramirez, Hayton and Wood using their squad cars as shields, guns aimed into the lot. Ackerman has a megaphone. Everyone’s in bulletproof vests.

“As far as we can tell, they’re in there,” Turnage says, approaching Manheim. He points at a red shipping container. “It looks like that might be an entrance to someplace underground. There were a couple men here when we arrived, and they all went in there.”

“Do we know who they were?”

“Nah. Not dock workers, anyway. They were wearing domino masks. This shipping lot has been closed for a couple years now, anyway. There shouldn’t be anyone working here.”

Manheim frowns. “So Batman has followers. It’s not a surprise. Do we know if there are any back entrances?”

Turnage shrugs. “There shouldn’t even be a _front_ entrance there.”

“We should set up a perimeter a few blocks out to make sure that they can’t escape anywhere. And tell the men to watch the roofs.”

Turnage nods and retreats to give orders. Manheim eyes the red shipping container. There are more than a few footprints in the snow approaching the door of the container. Has this been here all along? Was this Batman’s secret hideout back when he first started terrorizing Gotham? It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. It is on Wayne Enterprises property, after all.

The radio inside the squad car next to Manheim starts crackling. “We have a report of two men looking like Batman and the Joker loitering around a lot on Thurston and Eighth,” the radio says fuzzily.

Manheim opens the door and slides in. “This is Manheim. I’ve got most of MCU here at Thurston and Fourth. I’ll send half of them over but we’re going to need backup.”

“Roger that,” the radio replies.

“All right,” Manheim shouts, getting out of the car. “Gould, Cooke, Reger, Long, Turnage, you’re all with me. The rest of you, stay here and make sure no one goes in or out. Backup should be here soon.”

The officers scatter and Manheim gets into the nearest squad car. Reger and Long get in and they pull away from the curb, sirens off.

Four blocks down is an unlabeled storage yard, fenced in and quiet. There doesn’t seem to be any activity there, though the snow is churned up here as if people have been moving around here as well.

“How much you want to bet that the underground lot over there lets out here?” Manheim suggests smugly.

They get out of the car and ring the fenced-in yard. There don’t seem to be any alternate exits from the lot.

“Look at this,” Gould calls to him from the other squad car. He’s pointing at a security camera on the nearest low-roofed building. It is aimed at them.

“They know we’re here,” Manheim says. He resists the urge to rub his hands together like a kid. “We can wait them out.” He turns abruptly to Long. “I want you to go and find out whether Wayne owns any other property around here. We don’t want them escaping out of somewhere else. Reger, see about getting us a warrant.”

They rush to obey him and he turns back to the lot, resting his elbows on the roof of the squad car. Sirens are wailing in the distance.

“Sir, you should put this on,” Cooke says, handing him a bulletproof vest.

“Thanks.” Manheim pulls it on. A news van is trundling down the street towards them. “The vultures are here already.”

“So’s backup,” Cooke says, sounding pleased. The first of the police cars are coming down the street. Manheim watches them pull up all around the lot. He sees Lt. Boggess of Central getting out of one car and he strides over.

“Boggess,” he greets him, feeling smug. “MCU’s got this one, but thanks for the backup.”

“Anytime,” Boggess says coolly, looking into the lot. “What’s the situation?”

“Looks like Batman’s got some sort of underground hideout here. The entrance was down on the Wayne Enterprises lot, but this looks like a back door.” Manheim turns to wave vaguely down the street towards the Wayne Enterprises lot and then freezes.

“Uh, sir?” Cooke is saying anxiously, following his gaze.

There are school buses coming down the street. Not one, or two, or even six. With every second there are more and more of them coming down the street, moving in a long yellow line towards them.

“What the hell?” Manheim says dumbly.

The first bus reaches them and continues slowly past, the bus driver peering out at them curiously. Manheim waves frantically at Turnage. “Stop them,” he says. “Stop them right here!”

Turnage goes to flag down the bus and Manheim stomps over. When the bus driver opens up the bus doors, Manheim shoulders his way into the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps.

The bus driver looks confused. “We were told to head this way,” she says, looking in her rearview mirror at the rest of the buses. “We got the order that you were letting us pick up the kids a little early because the threat had passed.”

“Got the order from who?” Manheim exclaimed.

The bus driver stares at him, mystified. “I’m just doing what I’m told. I don’t know where the order came from.”

“What the hell are you all doing down here anyway? The schools are in the other direction!”

“But all of the streets have been blocked off with traffic cones. I figured this was where we were supposed to go.”

Manheim gapes at her, speechless. He glances over at Turnage, who shrugs and then hurries away to verify the story.

“Okay, get out of the bus and show me some ID,” Manheim says, waving the bus driver down the stairs. She puts the bus in park and gets off the bus, looking confused.

“I was just following orders,” the driver says again defensively. She hands him her ID and he studies it. It seems to be legitimate.

Turnage reappears. “All the streets have been blocked off with traffic cones from the bus yard to here. Someone wanted them to show up here. Maybe they wanted to distract us.”

Manheim frowns. “Make sure none of these buses are the stolen buses and then get the buses out of here.” He hands the ID back to the woman. “We’re not going to play into their hands.”

He turns away as the driver gets back on the bus and Cooke and Turnage relay the message down the line. There is still no movement from the lot. Perhaps they were hoping that the school buses would distract him enough for them to make their escape? Of course, that would imply that Batman had planned for the police to show up at his hideout, which was just ridiculous.

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. Manheim takes it out and flips it open. “Hello?”

“Manheim, what the hell is going on down there?” barks Commissioner Davis.

Manheim unconsciously straightens up. “We’ve got the Batman cornered, sir. We found his hideout by the docks.”

The Commissioner’s voice drops to a growl. “That’s not the Batman’s hideout, Manheim.”

“We got an anonymous tip—”

“That’s _not_ his _hideout_ ,” the Commissioner repeats. “Get your men out of there. I don’t care what you tell them, but you need to get out of there.”

“Then whose hideout is it?” Manheim asks in irritation. “Because it’s obviously _someone’s_ —” He stops, suddenly making the connection. “Oh.”

“Right,” snaps the Commissioner. “And I’d appreciate it if you don’t harass him any more.”

“Yes, sir,” Manheim says. “Of course, sir.”

“Thank you,” the Commissioner says, hanging up.

Manheim slaps his phone shut and turns on his heel, looking for someone to yell at. “Gould! Get over here.”

Gould hurries over, looking nervous at Manheim’s annoyed expression. “Yes, sir?”

“Who took the call at the station?”

“Ramirez did.”

Manheim draws a breath in through his nose. “Of course she did. I bet she thinks this is funny, too. It’s a false alarm. Tell everyone to get out of here and get back to work. And if you see Ramirez, tell her I need to talk to her.”

He dismisses Gould and turns to watch the line of school buses moving away. There are a lot of them and they just keep coming.

“Something wrong?” calls Boggess, approaching him.

Manheim sucks on his teeth. “Turns out my rookie took a bogus tip,” he says tightly. “Guess we won’t be needing your help after all.”

Boggess raises his eyebrows, looking faintly amused. “How embarrassing,” he says, turning away.

Manheim scowls and paces back to the car. He can still feel the eye of the camera on him and wonders if Owlman is watching him right now. He swallows hard and turns his back on the camera, watching the last of the school buses disappear down the street.

Long jogs up to him. “There is more Wayne Enterprises property about two miles down the street,” he says breathlessly. “That one’s actually in use by the company.”

Manheim shakes his head. “We’re done here. It was a mistake. Bring me back to the other lot. I have a rookie to talk to.”

Looking startled, Long gets into the squad car and starts it up. Manheim gets into the passenger’s seat and scowls moodily out the window as they make a U-turn and head back down the street to the other lot.

The rest of the backup and Manheim’s unit are all milling about the lot when they arrive. Manheim gets out of the car and storms over to Ramirez. She looks wary.

“You took the call this morning?” he demands when he reaches her.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frowning.

“And they didn’t give their name?”

“No, sir.”

“Could you describe the voice?”

She shrugs. “Male, maybe late twenties or early thirties. Sounded Midwestern. He was calling from a pay phone at the public library.”

“It didn’t occur to you that it was a hoax?”

“I treated it as we treat all tips, sir. It wasn’t my call to decide if it was a hoax or not.” Her expression is bland.

He scowls at her. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing here, Ramirez, but I’m on to you. You don’t have your priorities straight. If I find out that you had anything to do with this—anything at all—you will find yourself up on charges so fast your head will spin, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice is infuriatingly calm. Manheim draws in a breath to continue but his cell phone rings again. He turns away from her and answers the phone.

“We have another problem,” says the Commissioner.

“I’ve called off my men,” Manheim says. “We’re leaving now.”

“I need you to check something for me.” Whereas earlier the Commissioner sounded angry, now he just sounds strained. “There should be two blue shipping containers on the property, marked Wayne Enterprises.”

Manheim turns in a full circle, peering at the stacked shipping containers. In the middle of the lot are two blue shipping containers, surrounded by police cars and cops.

“I see them,” he says.

“I want you to check inside them and make sure that the contents are intact. And Manheim—” The Commissioner’s voice rises to cut off his response. “I want you to _be discreet_. Only take your most trusted officers. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Manheim says immediately. “I will.”

“Call me back immediately,” says the Commissioner, hanging up.

Manheim strides across the lot to the blue containers. “All right, there’s no need to loiter. Don’t you all have work to do?” he shouts to the assorted officers. As they disperse, he gestures to Reger and Long. “You two, with me.”

They join him at the blue crates. Manheim waits for the last of the police officers to leave, then points to the first container. “Open it. We have to make sure nothing’s been stolen.”

Reger and Long jump to obey. Manheim goes to the second and turns the handle, pulling the door open. He stares inside.

“Uh, sir…” Reger says nervously.

“I think we have a problem,” Long adds.

Manheim stares into the empty, echoing shipping container, his mouth going dry. “Stop the school buses. All of them. Send every unit to hunt them down and search them, understand?”

They both nod and pull their radios out of their belts, jogging towards the last of the squad cars. Manheim pulls out his cell phone again.

“They’re empty,” he says when the Commissioner picks up the phone.

The Commissioner swears expressively for a minute. “Where the _hell_ did it all go, Manheim?” he asks dangerously.

“There was an issue with some school buses,” Manheim says, preemptively wincing.

“There _what_?”

“Someone redirected all of the school buses here. There were hundreds of them. We checked to make sure that none of them were stolen, and none of them were, and then we sent them away again, but—” Manheim swallows.

“We knew someone was going to use those school buses for something and you just _let them run off with stolen property_?”

“I didn’t know the med—!” Manheim cuts himself off and lowers his voice. “I didn’t know it was _here._ ”

All of the police cars are gone from the lot except for Reger and Long’s squad car, which is waiting for him. Manheim hurries towards it.

“Find those buses,” the Commissioner says. “I don’t think I have to tell you what’s going to happen to you if you don’t find them.”

“No, sir,” Manheim says hoarsely. The Commissioner hangs up.

“Take me back to MCU,” Manheim directs Long, getting into the squad car. Long nods and they pull out of the lot.

“Everyone’s going after the school buses,” Reger tells Manheim. “We had dispatch send out all units. The funeral should be getting out now so that will free up more people.”

Manheim nods and leans back in the seat. If only he’d known the medicine was there. Well, if he’d known it was _Owlman’s_ hideout to begin with—

The radio crackles as the first of the reports come in: four buses located, all of them empty. By the time they reach MCU, sixteen buses have been found, but no medicine.

Manheim stalks to his office and turns on the television before sitting at his desk. The news crew is set up at the docks, but strangely, they’re not at the Wayne Enterprises lot, as he had expected. The anchorwoman is standing in front of the Kasel freighter.

“—murder of the entire crew of this freighter and the heist of two shipping containers full of medical supplies destined for the hospitals of Gotham City. When Kasel officials arrived today to reclaim the freighter, they found six school buses hidden on the deck.”

The anchorwoman walks up the gang plank, followed by the camera. “As you can see, the school buses are blocked from view by these shipping containers here—”

Manheim yanks open the door to his office. Reger and Long look up at him, startled.

“Tell dispatch to find out who’s closest to the docks and send them to the Kasel shipping yard. The missing school buses are there.”

Reger nods and gets up. Manheim returns to the television and watches the anchorwoman interview one of the Kasel employees, who of course does not have the slightest idea why there are six school buses on the freighter. In five minutes, two police cars arrive and there is a flurry of excitement on the news. Manheim recognizes Cooke and Turnage as they hustle the news crew away and close the area.

His phone rings two minutes later. It’s Cooke.

“Are they there?” Manheim answers the phone.

“Empty,” says Cooke, sounding puzzled. “But they _are_ the missing buses. They’ve been wiped of fingerprints.”

“Damn,” Manheim mutters. “Okay, get back to finding the rest of the buses.” He hangs up without waiting for Cooke’s reply. It just doesn’t make any sense. Why go through the trouble of stealing six buses and then not even use them? It only made the police focus all of their attention on the buses, and it’s not like school buses were subtle. Who would transport stolen goods in something so bright yellow?

Manheim feels his stomach start to sink. This was wrong. All of it was wrong. The only reason anyone would use school buses were for a distraction, and if that was true—

Reger knocks on the door to his office. Manheim turns and takes note of Reger’s distressed face. He’s holding a piece of paper.

“Sir, Paterson Hospital just called to say that they received a delivery of medicine twenty minutes ago. It’s their share of the stolen medicine.”

“Did they see who delivered it?” Manheim asks immediately, his mouth dry.

Reger swallows. “Police officers, apparently. They had the medicine in the back of a squad car.”

 _The police cars_. Manheim closes his eyes briefly. Behind his eyelids he can see the police cars scattering all over the city, following the school buses on his orders.

He is _so screwed._

He opens his eyes. “We’ll need to bring the hospital employees in for questioning and see if they can identify any of our—”

Reger is shaking his head. “That’s the thing, sir. They can’t identify them. The police officers were all wearing masks.” Reger pauses, frowning.

“Masks?”

“Batman masks.”

“Sir?” Long comes up behind Reger. “Memorial Hospital is on the phone.”

“Get out,” Manheim says, turning away from both of them and going to his desk. “I have to make a phone call.”


	12. Chapter 12

“This is Tango. The delivery has been made.”

The Jokester lets out a whoop of joy and bounces to his feet. Batman allows himself a smile as he replies, “Thanks, Tango. That’s all of them. Good work.”

“Success!” The Jokester crows in delight. “Told you that plan was foolproof.”

“Ha.” Batman sits up and stretches from where he’s been sitting on the floor of the office for two hours. They chose an abandoned warehouse across the street from the Wayne lot, where they could get a good view of the action. The warehouse was mostly boarded up but was pretty easy to enter from the roof. The third floor office has no furniture except for a battery powered police scanner, an electromagnetic device that could disable bus engines, and the laptop that Lucius Fox had lent them to help them communicate with the bus company and pose as Peterson’s Towing.

The Jokester goes to the window and looks out across the street towards the Wayne lot. He rakes a hand through his hair and Batman notices a streak of greasepaint through the purple. He’s fairly buzzing with manic energy and Batman finds himself grinning in response. Batman climbs to his feet

“I wish I could see his face!” The Jokester pauses, apparently picturing it, and then bursts into laughter.

Batman comes up next to him in the window and looks out as well, his shoulder bumping into Jackie’s. The Jokester glances over at him, swallowing down the last of his laughter.

“Stop thinking about Owlman,” Batman says to the window. The Jokester says nothing, and when Batman looks at him, the Jokester’s expression is strangely fond. It makes something tighten in Batman’s chest. He leans over and kisses the Jokester.

It’s different with the makeup on. Last night Jackie was all warm, clean skin, not this slick, strange tasting Jokester. Batman feels a surge of something—hate? Anger?—but he pushes it away, because this is _Jackie_ and no one else.

When they break apart, both of them gasping for air as if they’ve been under water, the Jokester starts laughing.

“What?” Batman growls, one of his hands cupping the back of the Jokester skull, his thumb rubbing against the Jokester’s jaw. He wipes away greasepaint and sees flesh underneath.

“I’ll stop thinking of Owlman when you stop thinking about the Joker.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the Joker,” Batman says harshly, letting go of him. The Jokester just smiles, rubbing at the spot on his cheek that Batman had touched.

“I know what it’s like. He knows you better than anyone because he’s seen you at your worst.” The Jokester steps forward, chest bumping into Batman’s, the gust of his breath against Batman’s face. “He’s _caused_ you at your worst. When you’re a faceless hero like you are—like we are—then the one person who knows all of your secrets becomes the most important person in your world.”

“Do I know all your…” Batman leans in to touch his lips against the Jokester’s, feeling the warm soft shape of them. “…secrets?” he finishes.

“Not yet,” the Jokester whispers into his mouth.

Batman pushes the Jokester against the wall beside the window with more force than he intended but Jackie doesn’t seem to mind. The shape of Jackie’s body is new and yet familiar under Batman hands. He doesn’t have the layers of armor that Batman has. His suit is just fabric and underneath it he is muscle and flesh, solid and real. Batman strips off his gauntlets and tosses them away so he can touch Jackie with his own two hands.

Jackie’s mouth is warm and wet and he kisses like he knows what he’s doing, his tongue tracing obscene patterns inside Batman’s lips. Batman holds the sides of Jackie’s face, his fingers digging into Jackie’s jaw, and loses himself in a slow, deep kiss, feeling arousal kindle deep inside of him.

The Jokester’s hands skim down the panels of Batman’s armor, finding the belt. Batman helps him unhook it and the heavy thing drops to the floor. The Jokester presses the back of his hand against the front of Batman’s suit and Batman groans.

“Do you want me to stop?” the Jokester asks. In response, Batman kisses him hard, pinning him against the wall and grinding himself against Jackie’s hand.

Jackie unlatches the front of the suit and Batman feels his cold hand encircling him, pulling his swelling cock out. He hisses and draws back at the shock of cold.

“Sorry,” Jackie whispers with a snort, blowing on his cold hands. “It’s _cold_ in here.” He puts his hands on Batman’s shoulders and spins them around, pushing Batman back against the wall. He leans forward and kisses Batman, then grins at him wickedly. “Got something warmer.”

“What—” Batman starts to say, and then Jackie slides down to his knees. His breath is hot and damp, and then his mouth closes over Batman’s cock all at once without a pause for second thoughts. The rest of Batman’s question dissolves into panting. He clenches his fists to keep himself from pushing forward into the tight, wet heat engulfing him.

Jackie closes his hand around the base of Batman’s cock and swirls his tongue along the underside of the head, his eyes rolling up to watch Batman’s reaction. Jackie is not gentle—it is hard and raw and Batman fights to hold himself together, struggling to make it last.

“Fuck,” Batman growls, knocking his head back against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut. “J—”

Jackie twists his hand and Batman involuntarily bucks forward. Jackie takes him deep, swallowing around him. Batman hears himself making sounds, his entire existence narrowed down to the hot mouth on his cock and the building explosion inside of himself.

He opens his eyes and looks down, his eyes blindly taking in an impression of greasepaint and dyed hair. He forces himself to meet Jackie’s dark purple eyes, grounding himself, and then Jackie drags the orgasm out of him and he is shuddering, gasping, spilling over.

When the aftershocks subside, he opens his eyes, unable to remember when he had shut them. Jackie is watching him, his eyes dark with arousal. Batman reaches down and pulls him up for a kiss. He can taste himself on Jackie’s tongue.

He starts to reach for Jackie’s belt and then stops, uncertain. “How does this work?”

Jackie laughs shakily. “Better let me get that,” he says, unbuckling the belt without triggering the mechanism. “Don’t want any _injuries_.” He turns and gently drops the belt to the floor.

Batman steps up behind him and wraps an arm around Jackie’s waist, pulling him up against his chest. Jackie half-turns his head, the back of his head bumping against Batman’s mouth. Batman closes his palm over the bulge in Jackie’s pants.

Jackie lets out a surprised noise, arching back against him. He is achingly hard, radiating heat. Batman unzips his pants and takes hold of him, closing his fist around the hard, silky length of him. He rubs his thumb over the wet tip and Jackie pushes back against him again, grabbing hold of Batman’s wrist.

Batman works his fist around Jackie’s cock, his other arm fastened around Jackie’s waist to pin him in place against him. He buries his face in the hair at Jackie’s neck and listens to Jackie breathe in quick, desperate gasps, pumping into Batman’s grip.

“I can’t—my legs won’t hold me—” Jackie whispers with a desperate laugh. Batman doesn’t answer, just drags Jackie down to his knees. Jackie leans forward, his hands braced on the floor, and Batman flattens himself against Jackie’s back, his own breathing harsh. He feels Jackie shuddering, his cock jumping in his hand, and hears Jackie gasp “Oh—” and then Jackie’s pushing back against him again, erupting messily over Batman’s knuckles. His breath almost sounds like a sob.

For some reason, Batman thinks of Rachel. He remembers when she first discovered who Bruce really was. _Your real face is the one the criminals now fear_ , she had told him. He didn’t believe her at the time but now he thinks Bruce Wayne would never be able to do what he’s doing now. Bruce Wayne loved flawless models and untouchable childhood friends, the sort of people who could serve as masks to hide his real self when he faced the world. Batman, faceless and nameless, can love anyone.

  


* * *

  


Hector adjusts his sun visor and squints through the dirty windshield at the traffic ahead of him. The setting sun is fat and orange, pinched in between the skyscrapers of the city ahead of him. Another ten minutes and it’s going to be right in his eyes. He sighs and eases the truck forward another foot.

He can see the back of Rickey’s truck three car-lengths up, with the bright red slogan across the back: _Kasel Medical Supplies—For a Healthier Tomorrow!_ When he looks in his rearview mirror he can see Gary and Kevin behind him. He’s done that check about a hundred times since they got near Gotham. The higher-ups had him sign some extra waivers to make this rush delivery, and it’s not like he doesn’t watch the news. He knows why Gotham needs a replacement shipment of their medical supplies. He knows what happened to the last guys. That’s why he brought his handgun with him this trip.

The traffic starts moving again, inching forward. Hector lets his foot off the brakes and the truck rolls forward.

Rickey puts on his directional up ahead, indicating that he’s taking the next exit. Hector puts his on as well and gets into the next lane as soon as he can.

“Think I know a shortcut,” Rickey says over the radio.

“I’m behind you,” Hector replies. They take the exit and Rickey takes a left.

For a few minutes it’s smooth sailing. There is pretty much nobody on the roads in this part of town. Hector catches the glitter of water up ahead and realizes that they’re approaching the docks a lot sooner than he expected. He sees the silhouette of shipping containers. They should be there in ten minutes, which means they’ll get their bonus after all.

“This is one hell of a shortcut, Rickey,” he says over the radio.

Suddenly Rickey puts on the brakes. “Fuck,” he says. “Some sort of road block ahead.”

Hector frowns as he sees Rickey come to a stop and get out of the truck. There are two guys standing there and they come over to talk with Rickey. They’re wearing domino masks. What the hell?

He looks in his rearview mirror and sees a truck pull up behind Kevin, blocking them in. He reaches over to the seat next to him and picks up his handgun, then hits the radio.

“Base, this is Hector. We’re having some sort of trouble here at, ah…” He trails off, looking around for a street sign.

“What was the location?” the radio asks, but then he hears gunshots and he whips around. There’s someone at Kevin’s truck, pointing a gun into the cab. They just fucking shot Kevin. Hector hits the door and spills out of the truck.

He fires two shots blindly at the gunman, who ducks out of the way and then turns towards him. This guy’s wearing a domino mask too. The news never said anything about how the murderers were masked freaks, but then again this is Gotham. Hector should have known.

He drops to the ground when he hears shots behind him—the two guys who were with Rickey. He cranes his neck and sees Rickey still standing there, watching him expressionlessly. The two guys open fire on Hector and Hector rolls, firing at them. Three shots, that’s five total. He’s got five more before he needs the next clip, which he cleverly left in the glove box in the truck.

Hector gets to his feet and sprints for the truck again. He just about reaches the door when something hits him hard in the side, slamming him into the truck. He regains his balance and gets into the truck, popping open the glove box, getting the replacement clips, sticking two in his pockets and then sliding back across the seat again to the door.

There’s more gunfire outside. Hector prays that Gary brought a gun too but he’s pretty sure he didn’t. He sticks his head out and sees the masked guy at Gary’s truck. He fires down the length of the truck and the masked guy shouts, pulling back. Hector turns back to the other two men.

It’s around this point that Hector realizes that the thing that hit him earlier was a bullet. His right side is numb and his leg is drenched with the blood pouring from his side. Black spots spin dizzily in his vision when he aims at the two masked men, and his shot goes wild. He shifts his balance to adjust and then the ground comes up to meet him.

Two heavy punches impact him in the chest and shoulder. Hector can’t feel the pain yet. He might not ever feel the pain, he thinks. He squeezes three more shots and the gun clicks empty. He drops it, his face pressed into the dirt.

“I didn’t know he was going to bring a gun,” Rickey is saying to one of the men. Hector turns his head numbly to the side to look at him.

Another guy has joined Rickey and the two masked men. This new guy has motherfucking wings. Wings! He’s covered in blue and silver feathers and for some reason it isn’t lame. It’s actually kind of unnerving.

“This is all of them?” the bird man asks, looking over the trucks, completely ignoring Hector.

“Yeah. Four of them,” Rickey replies. “You got my money?”

The bird man makes a gesture to one of the other guys. He disappears around the truck and Hector hears a car door slam. The man reappears with a plastic grocery bag. He hands it to Rickey.

“This is my money?” Rickey asks dubiously. He unties the bag and opens it up. “Holy fuck!” he shouts, his voice rising in hysteria, dropping the bag. “Holy motherfucking fuck! What the fuck is that?” The bag hits the ground, bounces, and then something rolls out of the bag. Hector sees a man’s head, splattered with blood, features slack.

Rickey drops to his knees on the ground and vomits. The bird man lifts his hand and points it at Rickey’s back. He’s holding a gun. The gun stutters, loud and sudden, and then the bird man turns and walks away.

The masked men move around Hector, getting into the trucks. Things are fading in and out now, getting fuzzy. Hector hears his own truck start up. He can see the head staring at him, and Hector stares back.

  


* * *

  


“I don’t think there was a cop in the city who _wasn’t_ there,” Ramirez says to the carpet in Manheim’s office.

Manheim crosses his arms over his chest, his mouth screwed up into an angry scowl. “And I’m sure you didn’t even notice anyone unloading _two shipping containers_ into the backs of police cars.”

Ramirez knits her brows together and lifts her head, giving him her best innocent look. “I didn’t see anything, but if you find out who did it, I hope you give them a medal for returning the stolen medicine to the hospitals.”

Manheim jams his finger onto his desktop and leans in. “Don’t play stupid with me. I know that you’re in cahoots with Batman. You and Gordon were like this when he was in MCU.” Manheim crosses his fingers. “Now he’s gone and you’re picking up where he left off. It makes me sick.”

Someone knocks on the office door. Manheim looks past Ramirez and his eyes widen. Ramirez turns as the door opens and Acting Mayor Mark Silvestri storms in, a dark, imposing thundercloud in a suit.

“Mr. Mayor,” Manheim says, startled. Ramirez steps unobtrusively out of the way.

“Manheim,” Silvestri says shortly. “I’m calling a press conference here in twenty minutes, and you’re in it with me.”

“Me?” Manheim says blankly. “Mr. Mayor, I—”

“Commissioner Davis is dead,” Silvestri says. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Dead?” Manheim sputters. And quickly on the heels of that, his voice rising an octave: “Promotion?”

“Alpha,” Ramirez whispers.

Silvestri glances over at her. “What was that?”

“Get out of here, Ramirez,” Manheim says, shooting a glare at her. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“How did the Commissioner die?” Ramirez asked Silvestri.

“Ramirez was involved in the debacle at the docks,” Manheim interrupts her.

Silvestri studies her for a second, then holds out his hand. “On behalf of the city, I’d like to thank you,” he says.

Startled, Ramirez shakes his hand. Manheim looks just as surprised as she feels. Silvestri looks back to Manheim.

“And thank you, Manheim, for leading the charge. It was your quick thinking that helped us recover the stolen medicine. I’d like to publicly commend everyone who was involved. Batman’s reign of terror has gone on for long enough.”

Ramirez knows she should keep her mouth shut but she can’t stop herself. “Batman?” she says.

Everything seems to click into place in Manheim’s head and he grins at her broadly. “You took the call yourself, right? Someone saw Batman and the Joker at the docks. It was obviously their hideout, and that’s where they were keeping the medicine. Once the citizens of Gotham see what kind of man Batman is, even his most rabid fans will stop supporting him.”

“He’s taken another shipment this afternoon,” Silvestri says gravely. “The replacement shipment was hijacked just an hour ago, and all of the drivers were killed.” He pulls a paper out of his pocket and hands it to Manheim. It looks like the same sort of paper that the last ransom note came on.

“He’s probably not hiding it in the same place again,” Ramirez says, watching Manheim as his eyebrows slowly go up while he reads.

Silvestri smiles. “Unlikely. And he’s taken extra precautions this time.” He nods towards Manheim.

“ ‘One of the containers is poisoned, so if you are planning to pull the same stunt, you had better be prepared to kill a lot of sick patients,’ ” Manheim reads aloud.

“Guess we’ll have no choice but to pay the ransom this time,” Ramirez says flatly. Manheim shoots her a look.

Silvestri hums noncommittally. “If you’ll excuse us, detective, I have a couple issues I need to discuss with Commissioner Manheim,” he says.

Ramirez looks to Manheim. “Congratulations, sir,” she says.

“Thank you,” Manheim says graciously.

“I hope it goes better for you than it did for the last three,” Ramirez adds, watching his expression sour. She nods to them both and steps out of the office.

“Omega,” she says as soon as she’s out of the office. Batman’s voice immediately jolts into her ear.

 _Ramirez, that was risky,_ he says.

Ramirez glances around the room. There are a few people looking her way, so she crosses the room to the hall beyond and locks herself into the bathroom.

 _The Kasel trucks should have had GPS enabled,_ Batman continues. _The company should be able to track them._

“Alpha,” Ramirez whispers. “Even if they can be tracked, one of them is poisoned. Omega.”

_I’d like to make sure that he can’t collect ransom on it, anyway._

_I have a contact who can track the GPS,_ comes Hayton’s voice. _I can probably get their location in half an hour._

“This is pointless,” Ramirez hisses. “We should be stopping Owlman, not wasting our time with this. This is just making everyone hate _you_ more.”

 _My reputation doesn’t matter,_ Batman says. _And we are going to stop Owlman, but if we let him collect on his ransom, he’s going to be too powerful to stop._

 _He’ll probably pay a visit to Manheim,_ comes another voice that Ramirez recognizes as Det. Angeletta. _We can keep watch on his office._

 _Good,_ Batman says. _Don’t put yourselves at risk, because Owlman is very dangerous, but if you see something suspicious, let me know. I’ll keep watch. As soon as we track down the Kasel shipment, we can take care of that._

“Be careful,” Ramirez says.

 _I will,_ Batman replies.

  


* * *

  


“This reminds me of a joke,” the Jokester says, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his overcoat. The window behind him frames the docks in the gloom of early evening.

Bruce takes the small container of black makeup that the Jokester had been using and digs his thumb into the stuff. “…Yeah?”

The Jokester grins, watching him smear the black paint around his eyes. He steps forward, captures Bruce’s hands in his own. “Let me,” he says. Bruce lets his hands drop and the Jokester rubs his fingers gently around Bruce’s eyes, smoothing the makeup into the creases and refreshing it where it has worn off and smeared from sweat.

“The joke?” Bruce prompts him.

“Close your eyes,” the Jokester orders. Bruce lets his eyes drop shut and the Jokester runs slick thumbs over his eyelids. Bruce hears the Jokester shift forward and then press his lips to his mouth. When Bruce starts to return the kiss, the Jokester pulls away.

“Do I have makeup on my face now?” Bruce asks sardonically.

“Mmmyeah,” the Jokester admits. He swipes the back of one hand over Bruce’s mouth. Bruce opens his eyes. The Jokester is grinning at him again.

“I’m just going to have to trust that this looks normal,” Bruce says.

“There’s a farmer who grows watermelons,” the Jokester responds. He steps back from Bruce and picks up the Batman mask from the floor. “But he has a problem. Every night, someone sneaks into his watermelon patch and eats one of his watermelons.”

Bruce takes the mask when the Jokester offers it to him. He pulls it over his head and adjusts it around his face. The black makeup around his eyes covers the bare skin left by the mask. Batman picks up his gauntlets and pulls them on.

“The farmer sets up watch and tries to catch the thief, but the thief is just too sneaky, and night after night, the thief eats one of his watermelons. Finally, the farmer gets a _brilliant idea._ ”

The Jokester puts the laptop and scanner back into the dented cardboard box and shoves it into the corner of the room where it will be less obtrusive. Later they’ll retrieve it, but for now it needs to stay out of sight.

“And?” Batman prompts.

“He puts up a sign in the watermelon patch for the thief to see. The sign says—” The Jokester spreads his hands. “ _One of these watermelons is poisoned._ ”

Batman turns around in the small room, making sure they have everything they need. The Jokester slings an arm around his shoulder, leaning heavily on him with an affectionate smile.

“And the farmer sleeps soundly knowing that none of his watermelons will be stolen. When he wakes up in the morning and checks the field, all of his watermelons are still there.” The Jokester holds up a finger. “But then he notices that something has changed.”

 _I have the location of the Kasel shipments,_ comes Hayton’s voice in their ears. _They’re in a warehouse about two miles from the Wayne Enterprises lot._

“Thanks,” Batman responds to Hayton. He glances at the Jokester. “What changed?”

The Jokester only smiles.

  


* * *

  


“I see you have a—ah— _pest control problem._ ”

Owlman’s head snaps up and he scowls at the man standing in the doorway. The Joker sidles into the living room of the penthouse suite, hands in his pockets. Behind him, in the hallway, Owlman can see the body of one of his men.

“Because you brought the Jokester here,” Owlman snaps, slamming his fist into the pile of papers on the desk. There are papers all around him, contracts and invoices and financial records. Checks to certain influential politicians and government officials. Deeds to key properties. A gun with a silencer weighs down a pile of cash to his right, and a map of the Narrows sits folded to his left. The digital clock on the wall reads 3 a.m.

The Joker strolls forward, looking around in interest. “You broke the terms of our deal when you told everyone who Batman really was. I had to find a way to make it fun again.”

Owlman picks up the gun from the desktop and aims it. “This isn’t about fun. I let you out to get the job done and you failed.”

The Joker wags a finger, opening his jacket. There are explosives strapped to his chest, the detonator attached to a string tied to his thumb. “Didn’t fail. Did exactly what I was trying. And I’m not done yet. Now we can, ah, _paint the walls with Owlman_ , or you can listen to me talk.”

Owlman stares into the man’s eyes for a second, gauging his sincerity, and then lowers the gun. “Talk,” he says shortly.

The Joker lets his jacket swing shut and begins to pace, gathering his thoughts. “You don’t have the imagination to take on Batman and that _other me_ ,” he says finally. “You can _clench as tight as you want_ , but you will not be in control until they’re squashed.”

Owlman frowns but says nothing. The Joker inspires a searing hatred in him that he can’t quite control, and he hates not being in control. “You said you were going to take out Batman before and all you did was kill his _butler_.”

The Joker shakes his head vehemently. “I didn’t say I was going to _kill_ Batman,” he corrects. “But here: I will take care of both of your pests permanently, and in return—”

“No,” Owlman snarls immediately. “Kill Batman but I want to see the Jokester alive.”

The Joker pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up. “It makes me shiver just thinking of the naughty things you want to do to my twin.”

“Kill Batman. Give me the Jokester. And give me back the ring.” Owlman thumps his fist on the desktop for emphasis.

The Joker steeples his fingers and touches his index fingers to his lips. “You get the Jokester,” he says slowly. “I get Batman _and_ I get the ring, and you never see either of us again.”

That stops Owlman. He studies the Joker for a second. “You’re going to my Gotham?”

The Joker’s smile widens. “It’s like a house of cards that you, in your infinite anal retention, have set up for me. All these perfect little extortion plans and the Crime Society of America running smooth as clockwork. It just needs a little _wrench_.”

Owlman frowns. “You’re going to fight crime?”

The Joker laughs. “You think this is a battle of crime versus law? Good versus evil? It was never about that. It’s _order_ versus _chaos_.”

Owlman lets his breath out through his nose, considering this. He hadn’t intended on leaving his own Gotham for good, but with all of the crime fighters dead, Talon missing and the Jokester here, there isn’t any reason to go back.

“It’s a deal,” he says finally.

Footsteps thump down the spiral staircase in the lobby. One of Owlman’s men appears in the doorway, holding a laptop. He stops short, seeing the Joker. “Ah, sir,” he says uncertainly.

“What?” Owlman snaps.

“Someone broke into the warehouse where we’re storing the medicine shipment,” the man says cautiously, still eying the Joker.

“Is it still there?” Owlman asks urgently, straightening. The Joker is watching the lackey like a cat watching a mouse. The man edges away from him.

“Y-yes, it’s all there,” he says to Owlman. “But there was some…graffiti.”

“Graffiti?” Owlman says blankly. He gestures sharply with the gun and the man approaches, placing the laptop down on the desk. He opens it and the screen turns on, displaying a photograph of four Kasel shipping containers. A message has been scrawled in red spraypaint across the shipping containers.

Owlman lets out a wordless snarl and turns away from the laptop, clenching his fist. He hears the Joker start laughing hysterically, bending over and covering his mouth with one hand.

The spraypainted message reads: _TWO of these watermelons are poisoned_.

Owlman counts down from ten, holding his breath, and then lets it out. “You,” he says to the lackey.

“Yes, sir?” the lackey asks, wide-eyed.

Owlman raises the gun and shoots him in the face, and keeps pulling the trigger as the man falls, emptying the entire clip into him. The sound of the gun is a muffled pop.

The Joker braces one hand on the desk, still giggling. “Batman’s contact in the force,” he says between gasps for air.

Owlman turns to him. “What?”

The Joker wipes his eyes. “Anna Ramirez,” he says.


	13. Chapter 13

Ramirez lets the door of her apartment swing shut and then she slumps against it, exhausted. It has been a _long_ day and night. It’s already pushing nine a.m. She hasn’t been home in nearly twenty-four hours.

Her aquarium hums contentedly in the corner of the room. A handful of black tetras come eagerly to the side of the tank to greet her. Ramirez pushes off the door, shrugging off her coat. She drops it onto the back of a chair and goes over to the tank, picking up the can of fish food.

“Hey guys,” she says, popping the lid off the can. She sprinkles red and gold flakes into the top of the tank. “Did you miss me?”

The fish swarm the food. Ramirez recaps the can and then frowns into the top of the tank. There is something half-buried in the gravel in the bottom of the tank. It glimmers in the aquarium light.

It’s the key to her apartment that she keeps under the mat by her front door.

Ramirez whirls around and faces her empty apartment, her hand going to the gun in the holster at her hip. She draws it and quickly scans the room. The living room seems otherwise untouched. Everything is as she left it this morning.

Ramirez steps away from the fish tank, moving further into the room. The kitchenette looks empty. She aims her gun down the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom, peering into the darkness. She moves to the wall and hits the light switch, revealing an empty hallway.

“This is the police,” she calls, making her voice as commanding as she can. “If there’s someone in there, you had better come out now.”

Silence. Ramirez creeps forward, listening hard. She can’t hear anything beyond the hum of the aquarium in the living room.

She steps to the bathroom and shoves the door open, covering the tiny room. Nothing. She turns on the bedroom door and kicks it all the way open, letting it bounce off the wall. Her gun sweeps the messy bed, the wardrobe, the—

“Looking for someone?” purrs a voice behind her. A hand, planted in her back, gives her a shove. Ramirez stumbles to her knees, then whirls around, falling onto her back, her arms swinging the gun up.

The Joker stands in the doorway, an Uzi held carelessly in one hand. The mouth of the gun smiles into her face. Ramirez feels her chest go cold.

“Remember me?” he says cheerfully, looking down at her. “You did a job for me once.”

“Alpha,” Ramirez croaks. “The Joker is in my house.”

“Do hurry, Bats,” the Joker adds. “I won’t be here much longer.” He brings the gun down and pulls the trigger. The gun is set on single shot, which Ramirez doesn’t have time to be thankful for when the bullet buries itself into the meat of her thigh.

She screams, her own fingers squeezing on the trigger, but the shot goes wild, planting itself in the ceiling. The Joker shoots her in the other thigh and then pounces on her, grabbing her wrists and slamming them to the floor until she lets go of the gun. He shoves the gun in the back of his pants and handcuffs her, straddling her chest.

“Batsy, you still on the line?” the Joker asks, one hand pinning Ramirez’s wrists to the floor. His other hand rips the front of her shirt open, buttons popping off. He feels around her neck and bra, then in the front pockets of her shirt. “I really don’t know how this thing works but I know you can hear me.”

Ramirez grimaces, tears of pain squeezing from her eyes. She can feel the blood soaking through her pants. Her muscles are quivering with the pain of it. Neither bullet seems to have hit the femoral artery or she would be dead already.

“Anna Ramirez here has been doing some nasty things to Owlman’s plans,” the Joker continues, feeling around the back of her neck. His hand slides up behind her earlobe, and then he pushes her head to the side, peering into her ear. “Commissioner Davis lost his head for that, but Owlman wants to do something _special_ for little Anna. He wants to make an example of her. She’s going to be executed at eleven. On live television.”

The Joker fishes his finger into Anna’s ear and pries out the earpiece. He gets to his feet, his pants soaked with Anna’s blood, and strolls over to her bedside table, where her clock radio sits.

“I hope you take the time to tune in.” He sets the earpiece down on the table and hits the on switch on the radio. Music comes blasting out. He turns up the volume and turns back to Ramirez.

“Ready to go?” he asks her.

  


* * *

  


Bruce yanks the earpiece out of his ear, seeing Jackie do the same. The music is screaming tinnily out of the tiny speaker.

“Shit,” Bruce swears, holding the earpiece in his hand and shooting to his feet. “Ramirez.”

“We have two hours,” Jackie says. They’re in the Batcave again, sitting on a pile of all the blankets from the cot. The fire is crackling merrily with new wood. Jackie shivers in the cold left by Bruce’s departure and grabs for his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head.

Bruce is already heading to the table where he left his costume the night before. “How could he even think he’ll be able to execute her on television? Owlman’s in control but he doesn’t have that much power yet. No one is going to let him do a public execution.”

“He’ll need to get his own film crew,” Jackie suggests, grabbing his coat and pulling his makeup out of the pocket as he gets to his feet. “He’ll have to find one somewhere.”

“I need you to stay here,” Bruce says, stepping into his suit. “I’m sorry,” he adds as Jackie moves to protest. “I need you here with the laptop and police scanner. Use that phone on the wall to let me know as soon as you hear anything about an execution or a news crew going missing. I have my cell phone. There isn’t any time to go turn off that radio. I need to find Ramirez.”

“It’s a trap, you know,” Jackie says, holding his makeup in his hand. “He told you about it because he wants you to be there.”

“I know.” Bruce pulls the mask over his head. “But I can’t let someone else die. If it is a trap, you need to be free to save me. I’ll call you at the first sign of trouble.”

Jackie sighs, looking like he wants to argue. “Fine,” he says. “At the _very first sign_ of trouble, okay?”

“It’s a deal.” Batman swings his leg over his old motorcycle.

“Be careful,” Jackie says.

Batman glances over at him, his worry momentarily smoothing away. “You too.”

Jackie steps toward the motorcycle and kisses him. Batman leans in to the kiss, his eyes closing, heat already beginning to stir low in his belly. After a moment, he pulls reluctantly away.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, starting the motorcycle engine. Jackie steps back and watches him go.

  


* * *

  


The Commissioner’s office is full of half-unpacked boxes and other debris from the succession of Commissioners in the last several days. A few boxes marked GORDON are stacked by the door, waiting to be removed. Most of Davis’s stuff is still on the shelves. There is even a bottle of fine scotch in the lower desk drawer that Manheim is pretty sure is Loeb’s, which he is more than a little afraid to touch.

“I want those boxes out of here,” Manheim says to his brand new secretary, Kendra. There are other things in the office that are brand new as well: the chair he’s sitting in, for one. And the carpet. The desk smells like cleaning solution. He’s trying not to think too much about the reason why.

Kendra nods, glancing towards Gordon’s cardboard boxes. “Your belongings should be arriving this morning,” she says. “We’ll have a crew in here to clean out the late Commissioner’s stuff. If you’d like, we can put you in a different office temporarily—?”

“No, no.” Manheim rests his hands on his desk, looking around the room. “This will be fine.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Manheim manages a smile in her direction. She leaves the office.

Manheim takes a deep breath, breathing in the smell of new rug and cleaning solution. He pulls open the pencil drawer and then pauses, blanching, when his fingers come away sticky.

“You know where Owlman is,” comes a voice from the corner of the room. Manheim leaps to his feet with an entirely unmanly shriek.

A shadow detaches from the curtains. He had been expecting some sort of visit from Owlman but not from Batman. Manheim feels his heartbeat ratchet up a notch.

“I, uh, what?” he says.

Batman crosses the room in two steps and plants his hands on the desk. “He took Anna Ramirez, and you’re going to tell me where she is,” he snarls.

“I have no idea where she is!” Manheim protests. “I swear! I don’t know anything!”

Batman grabs the collar of Manheim’s shirt and pulls him onto the desk. Manheim flails, panting.

“They’re going to execute her at eleven today. Where is that going to be?”

“I heard that he took her but I don’t know where,” Manheim says desperately. “I haven’t talked to him directly. Silvestri didn’t want anything to do with it, especially with the election coming up so soon. He’s afraid that if she’s executed, people will think he can’t control the city. Of course, he couldn’t tell Owlman _not_ to do it! The guy’s a psycho!”

“How did Silvestri get in touch with him?” Batman gives him a little shake.

“Phone, I think. Sometimes Owlman just shows up.” Manheim shrugs. “That’s all I know.”

Batman lets go of Manheim’s shirt, letting him slide off the desk. “If I find out you knew anything else—”

“You’ll what? Break my legs?” Manheim lets out a bark of a laugh, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Owlman will _cut off my head_.”

Batman steps back and gives him a look that Manheim can’t read. “You really want to spend your life under his control?”

“Listen. If you take him out, I think a lot of people in this city would be happy to forget what you did last year. At least you kill guys quick, right? But if you try to take him out and fail, I don’t want to be the one who sent you his way. Get it?”

“If I take out Owlman, you won’t be Commission too much longer,” Batman says.

“But I’ll have my head, right? I can live with that.” Manheim watches Batman turn and slip to the window again. “Good luck,” he adds as Batman moves out of sight.

  


* * *

  


“Phone records,” Jackie says over the cell phone as Batman pauses on top of City Hall. “Silvestri’s been calling a lot of people in the last few days.”

“He might have called Commissioner Davis’s office too,” Batman says, looking down over the city. Rooftops gleam white with snow in places. He must stand out sharply against all the white, but he can’t afford to wait until night.

There is a pause, and then Jackie comes back on. “Well, the only number they have in common, besides calling each other, is the Gotham Marriott.”

“A tall building,” Batman says slowly. “What’s the address?”

“It’s uptown, near the—oh, wait—” There is the sound of a scanner mumbling in the background. “There’s something on the scanner.”

Batman waits, tense. He hears police car sirens start to rise in the distance.

“There’s a hostage situation at the First Bank of Gotham. They’re saying it’s—it’s a cop. It’s Ramirez.”

Batman steps up to the edge of the roof and spreads his wings. “They’re going to make the police execute her on television. I’m on my way.”

  


* * *

  


Ramirez opens her eyes in the middle of chaos.

There are people screaming all around her, and the sound of someone shouting orders. There is a crack of a bullet being fired. Ramirez flinches automatically, although the bullet wasn’t anywhere near her. Her head feels like it’s sitting on a patch of ice and every time she moves too quickly, it goes skittering off in a different direction.

Footsteps move around her and she realizes that she is lying on the floor. The floor is marble, and the room is large and echoing. She tries to roll onto her hands and knees, but moves too fast and falls over onto her other side. Her head goes running off across the room and it takes a minute to come back.

“Everyone get on the ground,” someone is shouting, but that’s okay because Ramirez is already there. Check that one off her to-do list. She lifts her head and sees a row of windows at the end of the rooms. Windows. It’s familiar. Why is it familiar? Oh! She’s in a bank.

There are people huddled against the far wall, looking scared. Men with guns move back and forth past them. Their faces are oddly squished, and it takes her a minute to realize that they are wearing nylon stockings on their heads.

She’s in a bank and there are bank robbers. But how did she get here?

Ramirez rolls up onto her hands and knees again, slower this time, and manages to make it up, although it takes the wind out of her. She stares at the floor and tries not to fall over. The floor is marble. She must be in a bank. Oh, no, wait. She knew that already.

“It’s almost time,” someone says. Someone grabs her by the back of her shirt and yanks her to her feet. Ramirez staggers, her head sliding off her shoulders again. She slams back against someone and tries to regain her balance.

“Put the mask on her,” someone says, and someone else grabs hold of her head. She raises one hand to try to bat his fingers away but can’t quite figure out where her head is. Someone pulls a nylon stocking over her head, matting her hair against her face.

“Coat,” someone else says. Ramirez feels someone take hold of one of her arms and feed it into the arm of a bulky winter coat. It’s actually quite nice of them. It’s kind of chilly outside. They push her other hand through and then button the coat up to her chin.

“Gun.” They fold both of her hands around the butt of a gun, then wrap duct tape around her hands, taping them to the gun. The sleeves of her coat fall down to cover most of the tape.

“It’s time.” Hands maneuver her to the front door. Ramirez squints through the front door. There are police out there, and someone shouting into a megaphone, although she can’t hear what they’re saying.

“Hey,” someone says, shaking her shoulder. “You awake?”

“Hrmm,” she murmurs.

“We’re robbing the bank,” he says. “You’re one of our hostages. We agreed to let you go free. See those police over there? They’ll keep you safe if you get to them as fast as you can.”

“Hnn,” she agrees.

“Go on.” Someone gives her a nudge and she staggers forward, hitting the door. For a second she glances down and sees blood on her legs.

 _I was shot_ , she thinks with a sudden lucidity. She blinks down at her legs. These must be some _quality_ painkillers.

“Get going!” Another shove.

Ramirez pushes the door open and staggers out. The cold air hits her in the face. People are shouting. It’s even louder out here than it was in there. She can’t see very well with this stupid stocking. She lifts her hands to take it off and sees the gun.

There is more shouting, louder and a little more frantic. She takes another step forward. _Safety_ , she thinks. _Just up ahead._

Shots ring out and something hits her in the side with great force. Ramirez lets out a scream, feeling herself falling, feeling herself—flying—

The street is below her, shrinking. Police are looking up at her, mouths moving, pointing. She is flying. There is an arm around her waist.

They come to a sudden stop on a roof ledge. Ramirez is tipped unceremoniously onto the roof and through her spinning vision, she sees Batman retracting his grappling gun.

“Bmnnn?” she says.

“You’re safe now,” he says, turning to her. He squats down over her and grabs the edge of her nylon mask, pulling it off. “You’re going to be just—”

He stops, staring down at her. She sees his triangle of mouth open and close. He reaches down and grabs a hank of her hair, lifting it up. It is, for reasons Ramirez is entirely incapable of comprehending, purple.

“Shit,” he whispers, wiping his fingers over her face. The glove comes away white. “Shit. It was a trap.” He’s on his feet, yanking out a cell phone. “Come on, pick up, pick up.”

There doesn’t seem to be a response.


	14. Chapter 14

“Well isn’t this cozy.”

Jackie jerks his head up from where he has been hunched over the laptop. There is a man standing just within the pool of light thrown from the fire. Jackie feels a lurch of surreality when he recognizes the Joker. Is that _really_ what he looks like?

He stands up, dropping the laptop to the ground. The Joker remains where he is, ten feet away. Footsteps scrape in the tunnel and three more men come into view, all of them wearing clown masks.

“I thought to myself, where could Batman _possibly_ be keeping all of those extra masks?” the Joker continues, his hands in his pockets. “They weren’t in his _love nest._ They weren’t in his _underground hidey-hole_. And then I remembered the _house_ that Bruce Wayne burned down a couple years ago.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jackie says, sliding his hand into the front pouch of his sweatshirt and feeling Owlman’s blade there. The men behind the Joker all have guns. He won’t be able to take them all out before they shoot him.

The Joker starts moving forward again. His men spread out to cover Jackie without getting the Joker in the line of fire. Jackie tightens his fist around the owlarang.

“A mutual friend wants to see you,” the Joker says.

“Are you running errands for him?” Jackie spits out.

“I’m getting something out of the deal.” The Joker’s gaze slides to the pile of blankets next to the fire. “Are _you_?”

Jackie flushes and watches the Joker come another step closer. Jackie is barefoot and unprepared for a fight, wearing Harvey’s pants and the sweatshirt. The Joker is straight in front of him. Two of the gunmen are circling around the fire. The third is to his other side. The motorcycle is behind them.

Jackie throws the owlarang.

It hits the fire, sending wood scattering and sparks flying. One of the gunmen jumps back but Jackie is already running at the Joker, ducking down to drive his shoulder into the man’s chest. Light flares behind him—the sheets catching fire—and then the ceiling explodes with bats. The Joker grabs Jackie’s arm to drag him back but Jackie shakes him loose and makes it to the motorcycle.

The bats swirl down around them, thousands of them like broken bits of ceiling screeching and flapping into their faces. The motorcycle roars and fishtails before its wheels catch and it shoots forward down the tunnel.

There is shouting behind him and then someone opens a gun. Jackie leans forward, shoulders hunched, as bullets splatter around him. One of them hits the back tire of the motorcycle and the whole motorcycle swings sideways, tire shredding. Jackie struggles to keep it under control but it’s still fifty feet from the entrance and it won’t make the jump. The motorcycle tips sideways and crashes to the ground, sliding.

The friction of the rock floor tears Jackie’s pant leg and scrapes the top layer of skin from his thigh. The bullets stop flying as the motorcycle slides to a stop. Jackie struggles out from under the motorcycle and gets to his feet. There are footsteps behind him.

He pours himself into a sprint, heading for the entrance to the tunnel. It’s only fifty feet away and closing. There are several sets of footsteps behind him, echoing crazily off the walls so he can’t tell how close they are. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

Jackie bursts into the fresh air. The ice on top of the snow shatters like glass under his bare feet. He makes it ten feet out of the tunnel before someone crashes into his back and rides him to the ground. They spin and roll and then the Joker is looking down at him, reaching for the flower tucked into his lapel.

“Tag, you’re it,” the Joker says. A squirt of tear gas hits Jackie in the face and he chokes, trying to twist away. His eyes are streaming. His nose is running. He can’t breathe.

They take him away.

  


* * *

  


The Joker’s men let Jackie drop to the floor in an unceremonious heap. He catches himself on one shoulder before his face can meet the floor. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s been gagged and blindfolded.

“Get out,” says a familiar voice, and if Jackie didn’t already have a rag stuffed in his mouth, his mouth would go dry. Instead he lifts his head, turning blindly towards the spot where Owlman must be.

Three sets of feet move out of the room. The Joker had parted ways with them all at Wayne Manor. His minions had taken Jackie in the back of a van on a circuitous route through Gotham, then hustled him out the back of it and into the loading dock of what Jackie was pretty sure was a hotel. No one had stopped them to ask why they were carrying a bound and gagged man into the service elevator so Jackie had been pretty sure they were in Owlman’s territory already.

Air brushes over Jackie’s face and a hand tugs the blindfold off his head. Yellow-ringed eyes stare at him from out of an owl mask. Owlman straightens up, dropping the blindfold, and takes a step back.

“Pathetic,” Owlman mutters, looking down at him. “Your twin is better at getting things done than you are.”

Jackie hums into his gag and rolls up to his knees, wincing at the sting of the road burn on his thigh. They seem to be in a penthouse suite. The skyline of Gotham hangs in the distance over the edge of the terrace, hazy with blown snow. Hot air hisses out of the radiator. Owlman reaches out and yanks down the gag. Jackie wets his mouth and grins.

“What a coincidence,” he says with a leer. “So’s yours.”

Owlman smiles thinly, his eyes flat as coins. Jackie’s breath catches in the back of his throat involuntarily with something like fear, but on the heels of that fear is a teeth-buzzing hilarity. Those eyes promise him pain.

The glossy wooden table behind Owlman is scattered with weapons, almost as if Owlman has been preparing for this. Maybe he has. Jackie’s eyes flicker over the weapons and then he tears them away, his stomach clenching. Yep, the terror is back.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Owlman says, turning towards the table. His back is momentarily to Jackie and there isn’t time to think. Jackie heaves himself to his feet and lunges for the staircase. There may be gunmen downstairs but he’d rather take his chances with the bullets than with Owlman.

He makes three long strides to the staircase before something connects with the side of his knee with such force that Jackie can clearly feel it dislocating even before he hits the floor. Owlman is on him then, one gloved hand clamped over Jackie’s mouth, the blackjack drilling into his knee for a second blow. Jackie screams into the palm of Owlman’s hand and white-hot pain bursts inside his leg.

“Try running again,” Owlman hisses into his ear, his chest pressed against Jackie’s back. “I want to take out the other knee.”

Jackie’s breath comes in short, sharp sobs with the pain of it. Owlman waits, his breath huffing in Jackie’s ear.

“Do whatever—makes you happy—” Jackie chokes out, and then feels Owlman shift his leg to press on Jackie’s knee. Jackie grinds his teeth together. “Is that a blackjack in your pocket or are you just—” He loses the train of thought when Owlman presses down hard.

“You just can’t shut your mouth, can you?” Owlman says, a note of true wonder in his voice.

“You bring out the best in me,” Jackie replies. Owlman gets to his feet, grabbing the back of Jackie’s sweatshirt and dragging him to a sitting position. Jackie pants open-mouthed, avoiding looking at his knee, which is bent in a way is really shouldn’t be. Owlman lets go of his sweatshirt, letting him sag, and then moves over to the table. He turns back with the familiar shape of an owlarang in his hand.

“This is your best?” Owlman approaches him again, turning the blade over in his hands. “Riddles and jokes? If I give poisoned medicine to the hospitals, they’ll never pay my ransom again. But I doubt you’d actually want to run the risk that I’d give the poisoned medicine to them anyway, so I don’t think you poisoned it at all. You just want me to think you did. You were always a flawed opponent. You handicap yourself when you decide to never kill.”

“You won’t take the risk,” Jackie laughs breathlessly, his eyes fixed on the owlarang. “The ransom is too big.”

“The ransom is _nothing_ compared to the Wayne family fortune,” Owlman replies, dropping to a squat in front of him. The muscles in his thighs flex under his costume. “Having the police chase my little brother has been a nice distraction, but once he’s out of the picture, I think I’ll have the police drop the charges. I’ll even throw in you as a bonus, since there are witnesses that put you at the scene of murdering his hired help.”

He reaches out and grabs Jackie’s hair, pulling his head forward. Jackie twists to the side and Owlman mercilessly kicks out at his leg. Jackie folds with a croak and Owlman drags him forward by his hair.

“Just couldn’t wait to get back to your trust fund roots, could you?” Jackie gasps out, twisting his face away from the owlarang. Owlman presses the blade against Jackie’s lips, not using force yet.

“If I cut out your tongue, will you become a mime?” Owlman asks curiously. Jackie keeps his mouth shut, breathing harshly through his nose. He can smell the oil Owlman uses on his knives.

“Forget Gotham. I can buy the eastern seaboard with this money,” Owlman adds, tugging on Jackie’s hair until Jackie tilts his head up. Owlman is looking at him, his eyes intense, the pupils blacking out his irises.

Jackie swallows. The flat of the blade is pressed against his lips. Owlman’s breath is even.

He abruptly pulls the knife away from Jackie’s mouth and hooks it in the collar of his sweatshirt, yanking down. The material tears, exposing Jackie’s shirt underneath. Owlman grabs Jackie’s belt and then pauses, looking down at the buckle. His thumb brushes over the buttons on the side.

“Yes, no, that’s how you get it off,” Jackie says in a burst of giggles. “That one right there.”

Owlman lets out a noise of irritation and cuts through the belt, avoiding the buckle altogether. He yanks it out of the belt loops and tosses it away, then grabs the front of Jackie’s pants. Jackie freezes, his mouth going dry again.

“Did you do this with _him_?” Owlman snarls.

Jackie looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Are you _jealous_?” he asks incredulously. Owlman shoves him onto his back and yanks his pants and underwear halfway down his thighs. Jackie’s cock lies uninterested against his thigh and when Owlman touches it, he flinches violently.

“Maybe you should—put the knife away—” Jackie says shakily. Owlman ignores him and kicks his knees apart. Jackie coughs out a groan of pain, his vision receding for a moment. When it comes back, Owlman is folding Jackie’s good leg up against his chest, gloved hand clenched on the back of Jackie’s knee. Jackie hears buckles and zippers opening. The handcuffs are cutting into his wrists, pinned behind Jackie’s back.

There is the sound of a condom being unwrapped—a condom!—and Jackie almost laughs. He even planned for _this_ , that psychotic son of a— Owlman touches him again and this time he controls his flinch.

Owlman leans down, his face close to Jackie. The jutting nose of the mask digs into Jackie’s cheek. “You’re never seeing Batman again,” Owlman says, and Jackie doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a request.

It has been eight months since Jackie last did this, and his body resists when Owlman bears down. Jackie bites his lip and bucks his hips up, forcing Owlman in deep. Owlman’s hand tightens on Jackie’s leg, the only sign to betray his surprise. Jackie wonders if Owlman has done this before—maybe with his teenage sidekick Talon?—and now is _not_ the time to be getting the giggles, but then Owlman pulls out and pushes in again and giggling is the farthest thing from Jackie’s mind.

Owlman fucks like he fights—vicious—and there is a point when Jackie feels it shifting from pain to a hard-edged pleasure and his own cock is waking up. He closes his eyes tight, feeling the sharp points of Owlman’s hips digging into his flesh, and first thinks _Eddie_ —but it was never like this with Eddie—and then _Bruce_ —but he’s never done this with Bruce—and then, briefly, _Thomas_ —and Owlman hitches his hips and Jackie gasps, his cock jumping.

It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to call out “Bruce, yes, Bruce,” but now that he’s thought of it, the suicidal urge is rising in him. Jackie turns his face away from Owlman’s and whispers instead, “I never did this with him.”

Owlman shifts the angle of his attack and Jackie lets out a sound, his thighs tightening around Owlman’s hips. Owlman clamps his gloved hand over Jackie’s mouth, maybe to keep the gunmen downstairs from hearing. Jackie twists his face away, his cheek pressing against Owlman’s, each stroke of Owlman’s hips dragging sweet pleasure from him. He holds his breath, his lower body tightening.

Owlman’s hand shifts down from his mouth and suddenly Jackie feels cold steel on his cock. His eyes fly open. “Oh, Christ,” Jackie gasps. “Oh Christ—”

Owlman slams into him and Jackie is suddenly coming messily between them, his heart still beating too fast, his eyes wide. He digs a heel into the floor, pushing up, and feels Owlman’s rhythm stutter. The blade digs into his hip, scraping against his skin but thankfully _not_ anything more delicate than that.

Owlman’s weight sags on him for a moment. He swallows hard against Jackie’s ear, his breath unsteady. Jackie shifts, his thigh rubbing Owlman’s hip.

Owlman lifts himself off Jackie, pulling out. Jackie winces. Owlman wipes Jackie’s semen off his stomach with a grimace of distaste. He gets up, zipping up the front of his costume again, and then heads into the bathroom. Jackie hears water running.

Jackie flexes his good leg and then rolls onto his side. The room spins dizzily. His arms are numb from where they have been pinned behind his back. He aches. The belt is on the floor two feet away from him. Jackie sends a look towards the bathroom, then rolls again, his bad leg twisting uselessly, the pain making him sweat. He lands on his back, the belt pinned under his hands.

Jackie closes his eyes, feeling around the edge of the belt. He and Eddie made this belt ages ago. He runs a finger down the side, finding the screw. He digs his fingernail into the head of the screw and twists.

Expressionless, Owlman returns with a towel. He squats next to Jackie and Jackie freezes. Without saying a word, Owlman wipes down Jackie’s front and then fastens his pants again.

“Thanks for the, uh, reach-around,” Jackie says, forcing the tremor from his voice, his hands working behind his back. Owlman gets up again and tosses the towel back into the bathroom. When he returns, he has the blackjack again.

Jackie tosses back his head and groans. “I thought you were more creative than—”

Owlman swings and Jackie jerks his knee up, curling over. The blackjack glances off his femur. Owlman grabs the ruined front of his sweatshirt and drags him up again. Jackie fumbles the belt and drops it.

“You didn’t stay where I left you,” Owlman says, leaning down and grabbing the belt. He flings it across the room and it hits the far wall, springing open, mechanized insides falling out. He rears back and slams the blackjack into Jackie’s good knee and Jackie screams.

Owlman lets go of Jackie’s sweatshirt and lets him drop to the floor again. Slow footsteps are coming up the spiral staircase. Jackie struggles to catch his breath, craning his neck. He squeezes the tiny screw in his palm, then begins digging it into the keyhole on the handcuffs.

The Joker reaches the top of the stairs and stops, looking over at them in mild curiosity. “I heard you out in the hall,” he informs them cheerfully.

“I thought you were off catching Batman,” Owlman growls, tapping the blackjack against his thigh in leashed annoyance.

The Joker shrugs, sidling into the room. “Oh, I baited _that_ hook. The thing with fishing—it takes _patience._ ”

Jackie tests his knee. This one isn’t dislocated (yet) but he can feel the bone bruise forming. Owlman turns and glances down at him.

“Want to see me gut your twin?” he says to the Joker, dropping the blackjack and picking up the owlarang.

The Joker doesn’t answer, his eyes wandering down to Jackie. Owlman drops down and straddles Jackie. Jackie can smell antibacterial soap. Owlman slides the blade under the first button of Jackie’s shirt and then pulls down, popping them all off.

“You know how many organs of yours I can remove before you die?” Owlman asks. “I could take out your kidneys and you’d start stewing in your own toxins. I can take out your stomach and you’ll starve. I just have to nick your lower intestine and you’ll swell up with sepsis. It’ll take _days_.” Owlman rips Jackie’s shirt open and digs the point of his blade into the flesh at Jackie’s hip. “Which one do you want?”

Jackie’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He forces himself to swallow. “Surprise me,” he says. He hears the Joker laugh across the room.

Owlman smiles and drags the blade across Jackie’s stomach from right to left. Flesh parts, raw and red. Jackie lets out a noise before he swallows it. He doesn’t look down.

“What a brave little boy,” Owlman says softly, his gloved fingers pushing into the wound.

Something slaps the window at the end of the room. Owlman lifts his head and Jackie rolls his eyes back. He has a second to glimpse blinking metal discs, adhered to the glass with wads of goo, before they explode. The plexiglass cracks in large, jagged chunks, melting to slag in the middle. A grappling hook whizzes through the new opening and thunks into the hardwood floor.

A dark shape with a wingspan of fourteen feet comes arrowing in after it, fabric rippling with a sound like a roaring fire.

Batman.

  


* * *

  


Batman had wasted precious minutes contacting Hayton and giving him Ramirez’s location and getting him to look up the addresses of all the Marriotts in Gotham. There were four, but one was at the airport and one was too far out of uptown for Owlman.

The first Marriott he checked was closer to Wayne Tower and had an impressive penthouse suite but no one seemed to be home. Batman had smashed the glass and torn through the suite just in case, blindly charging from room to room, before he leapt off a balcony and headed for the second Marriott.

He’d landed on a building adjacent to the Marriott in time to see Owlman slicing Jackie’s belly open. Something overtook him then, something like rage, and he was already inside the penthouse suite and hitting Owlman will all of his strength before he even knew he had moved.

Smoke is still gathering in bunches on the ceiling when Batman slams Owlman into the far wall. Owlman’s head snaps back, denting the plaster. Batman drags him away from the wall to slam him again and only then does he feel the owlarang buried in between two plates in his armor on his chest. Hot blood runs down between his suit and his skin.

Owlman twists the blade and Batman roars, slamming his forehead into Owlman’s chin. He wrestles the blade from Owlman’s grip and flings it away. It bounces off a window and skitters out of sight behind the table. Owlman kicks Batman in the side of the leg and shoves him back a few steps. Batman rips the mangler from his utility belt, a device that he has used in the past to bend gun barrels and cut through car doors, and slams it into the armored plates of Owlman’s neck.

“What are you waiting for?” Owlman shouts in fury, slamming the heels of both hands into Batman’s wrist to break his hold on the mangler.

“It’s no fair double-teaming,” the Joker says lazily from the other end of the room.

Batman yanks the mangler out along with part of Owlman’s cowl. He swings to jam it into Owlman’s neck again and Owlman shoves into him. The mangler catches on the hole in his suit but Owlman keeps going, forcing Batman out of the way, and goes for the table in the middle of the room. The mangler clatters to the floor.

Batman catches a glimpse of the gun and drops to the ground as Owlman brings it up, already pulling the trigger. Bullets slam into the wall and the plexiglass, one of them hitting an armor plate on Batman’s arm. Batman rolls out of the way, kicking a chair at Owlman. It hits Owlman’s leg and Owlman bats it away. Another bullet catches Batman in the chest, cracking his collarbone.

Batman ignores the pain and bounces back up to his feet. He grabs a lamp from a side table and flings it at Owlman, and this time when Owlman knocks it away, Batman is right behind it, his fist with the mangler in it crashing into Owlman’s jaw, his other hand grabbing the gun and twisting. A bullet catches Batman in the stomach and he feels the impact ripple through his organs, but he yanks the gun out of Owlman’s grip.

Owlman folds, his jaw broken. Batman rides him to the ground, shoving the barrel of the gun into Owlman’s eye socket, pressing it against his eyeball.

“This bullet is too good for you,” he snarls, his finger caressing the trigger.

Owlman growls underneath him, trying to pull his arm free from where Batman has pinned it with his knee. Batman presses harder on the gun and Owlman subsides.

“Go on,” the Joker purrs from the stairwell. “Look what he did to your lover. You know he enjoyed it. You know he’ll do it again if you don’t take him out.”

Batman swallows, looking down into Owlman’s face. He recognizes that jaw under the mask. It’s the jaw that he sees in the mirror in the morning, and the jaw that he used to see in the portrait of his father that hung over the mantelpiece.

“You know how you’ll feel if you shoot him right now?” the Joker asks.

“Safer,” Batman whispers. The Joker laughs.

“Don’t do it,” Jackie’s voice comes from the other side of the table.

“You okay?” Batman asks.

“Peachy.” Jackie coughs. “Don’t break your rule for me.”

Batman can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. _It means more to me that you don’t break your rule—_

“I said double teaming was against the rules, and that goes for you too,” Joker says sharply. Batman lifts his head and sees Jackie up on his hands and one knee, handcuffs on the floor, his fingers curled around the discarded owlarang.

Owlman bucks underneath Batman and Batman, startled, loses his grip on Owlman’s hand. Owlman knocks Batman’s hand to the side and the gun goes off, bullet burying itself in the wood next to Owlman’s ear. Owlman grabs the gun and twists it out of Batman’s grip, knocking Batman off him and into the plexiglass window. Batman flails to regain his balance.

Owlman pulls the trigger three times in a row and all three bullets hit Batman dead in the chest, shoving him backwards. He feels his heart stagger in its rhythm under the force of the impact. Owlman rears up over him and he has the mangler in his hand. He slams it into Batman’s stomach and yanks, ripping open the panels on his suit. He pulls the trigger on the gun again.

The bullet slices through the hole in Batman’s armor. Bruce feels the impact of the bullet bouncing off the _back_ panel of his armor and he knows, even before the pain hits, that the bullet has gone right through him, tearing through his intestines.

Then the pain hits, and it is the worst pain Batman has ever felt in his entire life. He gapes up at Owlman, his breath gone.

“Ha, ha, you bat freak,” Owlman spits at him, his mouth twisted in a scowl. The neckpiece and cowl of his suit hangs in tatters.

Jackie steps up next to Owlman, leaning heavily on one leg, and places a hand almost tenderly on Owlman’s shoulder. His other hand reaches around the front of Owlman’s neck.

“Who’s laughing now?” Jackie asks quietly, pulling hard on the owlarang.

Owlman’s throat opens in a wide smile, blood washing down the front of his suit and splattering onto Batman. Owlman thrashes back against Jackie, losing his balance. Jackie wraps his arms around Owlman, dropping the owlarang and letting Owlman down slowly.

“Jackie—” Batman rasps and Jackie doesn’t look at him. Owlman’s head lolls to the side, his eyes wide and staring. Blood washes over Jackie’s arms, soaking into the floor.

The heat is spreading through Batman’s belly, creeping into his chest and legs. He’s going to die. He knows this. He blinks up at the ceiling, feeling the warm air from the radiator blow gently over his face.

“I didn’t want you to break your rule, either,” he whispers, letting his eyes close.

He hears Jackie shift and then crawl over to him. “Rules were made to be broken,” Jackie says, his voice shaky. Batman opens his eyes again when Jackie touches his cheek. Jackie is crying, tears dripping off his chin and the end of his nose.

“There’s hope for you yet.”

The Joker is squatting next to Owlman, looking impressed. Jackie jerks his head up, letting go of Batman and casting about for the owlarang. The Joker holds up his hands. He’s holding a chain in one hand. A ring swings gently from the end of it.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says with a smile, his eyes searching out Batman’s. “Go on.” His eyes slide away, looking down at Owlman.

“Get out of here,” Jackie hisses. The Joker raises his eyebrows slightly and reaches down, taking hold of Owlman’s shoulder.

“On my way,” the Joker says, and slips the ring onto his finger.

The two of them shift out of existence. Displaced air swirls around them. Jackie sways towards the empty spot, his mouth opening. Batman reaches out and lightly touches Jackie’s wrist.

“You’re going to have to go after him,” Batman says faintly.

Jackie turns back to him and frowns, digging into Batman’s utility belt. “We are,” he says firmly. “Once we figure out how.” He surfaces with Batman’s cell phone and dials 911.

“Do you think this counts as dying a hero?” Batman whispers.

“We need an ambulance for the penthouse suite of the Gotham Marriott,” Jackie says brusquely. “Someone’s been shot. Uh, make that two ambulances.” He hangs up and looks down at Batman. “And as last words go, those suck. I was always partial to ‘rosebud’ myself.”

“I love you,” Batman says, licking dry lips.

There are noises downstairs, a door bursting open and the sounds of shouting. It is far too soon to be the paramedics. It has to be Owlman’s lackeys.

“I love you too,” Jackie whispers. Batman feels Jackie’s lips brush his.

“Don’t let them catch you,” Batman says, feebly pushing Jackie away. “Get out of here.”

Footsteps thump up the steps. Jackie takes hold of Batman’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

“Shit,” someone says, and Batman recognizes Hayton’s voice. “Medic!” he shouts. More footsteps are coming up the stairs.

“The cavalry’s arrived,” Jackie says with a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“Hey, what are you looking so upset about,” Hayton says, coming into view. “This is _Batman_. A little bullet like this can’t stop him.”

“What did I tell you,” Jackie says to Batman, squeezing his hand.

“Give us room,” a medic says, dropping down next to them. She seems completely unimpressed with Batman’s costume. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here before someone tries to arrest you.” She glances at Jackie and then her eyes widen. “I need another medic in here.”

Policemen bustle around them, bringing in stretchers and bandages as the medics bark orders. Jackie flinches away when someone tries to get him to lie down, and hangs onto Batman’s hand. Batman clings to him like he’s a lifeline, afraid to let go.

“Where is Owlman?” Hayton asks them, standing over them and looking down.

Jackie doesn’t answer. Batman wets his lips.

“Dead,” he replies.

“Good,” Hayton replies coldly. Batman meets Jackie’s eyes.

If you take away Alfred and Rachel and Harvey and Eve and Eddie and Duela and every safe haven Batman and the Jokester have ever had, you still have the two of them, together.

It’s enough.


End file.
